


Surrender

by Chrissy24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confused Valjean, Fever, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I think this counts as slow burn although Javert might disagree, Introspection, Javert feels guilty, Javert's Confused Boner, Light Bondage, M/M, Madeleine Era, Madeleine has identity issues, Madeleine vanishes, Perceptive housekeeper calls it love, Sickfic, Symbolism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valjean is not such a saint after all, Valjean must choose, and gets to consummate his claim, and his confused mind, and nothing is straightforward anymore, delirious dreams, graphic possible death, kissing in a bathtub, while Javert hangs between life and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 102,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He closed his eyes against the nauseating vertigo, only to snap them open when a calloused hand framed his forehead. It felt ice cold.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“Oh dear God above,” Madeleine muttered under his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>When Javert faints in front of Monseur le Maire while asking to be dismissed for denouncing him, Madeleine takes Javert into his house and his care without realizing how serious the man's condition really is. As Javert sinks ever deeper into delirium, both of them are forced to be honest about the long-buried feelings that now resurface from the depths of Toulon. Valjean must piece by piece let go of his comfortable life as Madeleine in a desperate attempt to save his guard... and the man in Arras, who faces the death penalty in Valjean's name.</p><p>How much is Valjean willing to sacrifice to save innocent lives? Can Javert stay alive long enough to save Valjean in return? In the end, do any of them even have a future?</p><p>With artwork for ch's 11 and 14.</p><p>
  <a href="http://chrischelser.com/les-mis-fanfic-surrender/">Download complete, polished fic as PDF-novel here.</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Honouring my own kinks for a change ;p

Reading the letter again and again, the words sent cold shivers down his spine. He was crazy, the letter said. Crazy to accuse Monsieur Madeleine, a mayor and magistrate, of being the ex-convict and parole breaker Jean Valjean. His skills as an investigator were respected, the letter said, but he was wrong even so, for Valjean had been caught and would be tried in two days.

His mouth was so dry it made him cough.

With a horrible sensation in his stomach, Javert realised he had made a fatal mistake in denouncing the mayor – wrongly, as it now turned out. He had stared at the words until his head hurt, but he was forced to conclude there was only one way to go about this honourably. Ironically, the honourable thing was to surrender that honour and request dismissal. Still, that was what he would do.

His palms were sweaty and his steps leaden as he dragged himself to the mairie through the January snow. The icy wind blew straight through his greatcoat, it seemed. By the time he announced himself with the mayor’s secretary, he was cold to the bone.

Just as well, since he knew there was yet another great chill to be expected. He and Monsieur Madeleine had only ever been barely civil to each other, but since that public argument over that street jade, they had managed to completely avoid each other all together. Even if Javert now came bearing, for all intents and purposes, a white flag, he did not expect the mayor to bestow him any kind of courtesy. If the man even deigned to receive his chief of police in the first place.

To his surprise, the secretary informed him that the mayor would see him. That said, Javert made his way up the stairs. The steps were incredibly uneven, making him stumble a few times. Odd how he had never noticed that before.

There was, of course, also a chance that he nearly tripped because his head felt lighter than it should. He was well aware of it, as he was of that persistent cough and the nausea he kept surpressing, but he would not give in to that. In all those years of service he never had, and he didn’t see what was different about this time. It was merely a matter of keeping one’s back straight until the discomfort went away.

Although the shame of the crime he was about to confess underminded his usual resolution more than he’d like.

The mayor indeed received him, at least in the most literal sense of the word. However, he did not acknowledge Javert’s presence when he entered the office. Always patient despite his undeniable violent streak, Javert stood to attention before the desk and waited, his hat in hand and his heart hammering loudly in his ears in anticipation. Monsieur Madeleine did not look up from his work.

He continued to wait, unmoving. That is to say, he intended not to move, but his arms were trembling and the dull ache in his knees became more noticeable as time passed. Still Monsieur Madeleine ignored him, and Javert waited with the patience of the damned for him to look up at last.

It was a good half hour before that happened, and for all his efforts to stay still, Javert's whole body was taken by a faint sway now.

“What is it, Javert?” the mayor demanded curtly.

He drew a deep breath, collecting himself and his thoughts to the present task.

“I have come to report a crime, Monsieur le Maire.”

“Oh? What crime?”

“A policeman has disgraced his uniform by disregarding respect due to a magistrate. A disrespect of the gravest nature. As is my duty, I have come to inform you of this.”

Madeleine frowned. “Which policeman would that be?”

“I,” said Javert simply.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“And the magistrate?”

“You, Monsieur le Maire.” He felt nervous sweat trickling down his neck. “I have come to ask you to press charges against me and procure my dismissal.”

“Dismissal? Is that necessary? If you indeed showed me disrespect, I never took any notice of it.”

Javert scoffed, supressing the cough that followed. “I would resign, monsieur, but resignation is honourable. I have done you wrong and must be punished accordingly. My dismissal is in order.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea of what you speak, inspector, and I will not so lightly dismiss you, if at all.”

Javert roled his eyes. Dear God, the man was going to be _kind_ to him. That would not do.

 “Monsieur, after that scene about that girl, I was enraged,” he explained slowly. “In my anger, I denounced you to the Prefecture of Police in Paris.”

Madeleine barked a laugh. “As what? As a mayor encroaching on the chief of police?”

“As a former convict by the name of Jean Valjean.”

The mayor’s eyes flared, and justly so. Perhaps there was a chance the man would do the right thing after all.

“What did you say?”

“You reminded me of a convict at the Bagne of Toulon, where I served as a guard. He broke his parole after his release and I sincerely believed you to be… him…” His voice was trailing off, as were his thoughts. He summoned them both back with a scrape of his throat. “Furious with you after that fall-out about that whore,” the mayor flinched when he said that, “I sent word of this to the Prefect.”

 Madeleine straightened himself in his chair, carefully folding his hands. “And what answer did you get?”

“That I was crazy.”

“Well!” the mayor barked.

“Well, they were right.”

“I’m glad to hear you that think so!”

Javert shrugged, instantly regretting it when the lopsided movement threatened to upset his already precarious balance. He licked his dry lips. “It must be true, monsieur, as the real Valjean is to be tried in Arras for a recent crime as well as those he committed since his release.”

The mayor blanched for no good reason. “Are you sure it is he?”

“I was to travel to Arras to confirm this, but… as yet I have not had the opportunity to do so. However, three men recognised him as having served time in Toulon prison. It is unlikely that they should be wrong, eventhough they are all convicts themselves. It takes one to know one, as the saying goes.” He shivered violently at the thought of convicts testifying. Their word was worth so little they weren’t even sworn in before the court. “I shall travel to Arras the day before the trail. If I can confirm the man is Valjean, I will stay to testify.”

“And if you do not?”

“I cannot see why I should not recognise him.”

“Well, for one, you were apparently very adamant that I was this man.”

Javert sighed, briefly closing his eyes in exasperation and to keep the room from spinning. “A grievous mistake leading to an equally grievous crime, monsieur. You see now why I insist that you dismiss me.”

“Why? Because you were diligent and dutiful?”

“My behaviour was disgraceful, monsieur. It cannot go unpunished.”

“Punishment, you say? No, if anything such dedication to duty should earn you a promotion.”

Javert felt all blood drain from his face. “Monsieur!” he protested, voice as unsteady as his body was becoming. “This is a serious matter, monsieur,” he croaked, trying to swallow a cough that rose anyway. “It is justice!”

Now the mayor frowned again, but there was different quality to it than before. “Javert, are you—?  No, you are not well,” he said, frown darkening further.

“Of course I’m not! How could I be under these circumstances?”

“No, I mean you are truly ill, inspector. You are shaking all over.”

“With indignation, monsieur! If you would but be just and dismiss me, you would spare yourself the sight.”

Madeleine rose from his seat. “Javert…”

“You infuriate me, monsieur ! How difficult can it be to pass judgement and dismiss me?”

“Very difficult if the man in question does not deserve it,” the mayor said.

“Monsieur, I would ask.. You must…” He was suddenly intolerably hot. Where his greatcoat had not kept him warm barely minutes ago, now it was all he could do not to be smothered by it.

“Javert, go home. We will discuss this some other time.”

“That will not do, monsieur…” He was starting to sweat and was desperate for fresh air. “You should… I must be dismissed.”

“Not today, inspector.”

What? That man truly had no sense of justice! Javert would have told him so, but is head was swimming, making it hard to think straight or see straight. He couldn’t quite make out the mayor’s face anymore. “Monsieur, I…”

Suddenly his eyes roled back of their own volition and his head was weightless. As if in a dream he felt his knees buckle, and his body folded and collapsed like a puppet cut loose from its strings. In the distance someone cried out. He was about to fall into absolute darkness, when a sharp pain in the back of his head sent shooting stars exploding through his mind.


	2. Not an Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all updates will be this fast, but if a chapter is ready it had better be posted, right?

“Javert!”

Madeleine leaped out from behind his desk the instant he saw the inspector fall, but he could not prevent the man hitting his head on the floor with a sharp thud. Never one to turn away from another’s suffering, he quickly knelt down beside Javert and grabbed his wrist to search for a pulse. The carotid artery was far more reliable for that purpose, but inaccessible due to the standard issue leather stock all policemen wore. Still, he found a strong, fast beat pulsing beneath his fingers just as Javert groaned softly. Madeleine let out a sigh in relief.

“Javert? Are you awake? Can you hear me?” he inquired, putting his hand behind the man’s neck in support when Javert attempted to lift his head. The collar of the shirt, he noticed, was soaking wet.

“Hold on, don’t move,” he said firmly, pinning Javert down with his other hand. “You might have cracked your head just now.” He carefully pulled his hand away from the inspector’s neck. His palm came up wet but otherwise clean. “Ah! No blood, fortunately,” he concluded. More likely the dampness was caused by perspiration. Not nearly as alarming as blood, but in this quantity cause for concern even so. He glanced at Javert’s face, which contorted as he tried to wrest himself away from Madeleine’s grasp.

Madeleine removed his hand, leaving Javert free to turn away and onto his side.

“I’m fine,” the inspector growled with little conviction. He managed to work himself up to a sitting position, but pulled up his knees and rested his head in his hands as soon as he had. The fall had probably left him with a splitting headache. “I apologise for causing a scene,” he said, his usually commanding voice brought down to an indistinct murmur.

“Apology accepted, inspector, but I do believe you are very far from ‘fine’,” said Madeleine gravely. He gently put a hand on Javert’s shoulder, only to have the man push it away again. He rocked back on his heels, putting the distance of decency between them. “If you will not accept my help, I will not insist that you do, but you really should see a doctor.”

Javert growled something that sounded like ‘quacks’, followed by ‘too bloody expensive’.

“The hospital provides free care to all, as you well know.”

“No!” the inspector bit, a surprising amount of ferocity harboured in that one word. “I can take care of myself, monsieur.”

Under the circumstances, Madeleine seriously doubted that, but did not argue. “At least let me help you to your feet,” he said, getting up himself as he spoke.

Javert regarded the hand that was extended to him as if it were poisonous.

“A magistrate does not offer his hand to a spy,” he said, struggling to get up. With some effort, he did, but could not find his balance once he had.

Madeleine reached out to steady him, taking Javert’s upper arm in a strong grip lest the man would fall again trying to get away. Once he was sure Javert had a reasonably solid footing, he bent down and picked up the tall hat, which he handed back to the inspector.

“You truly are not well, Javert. I would beg you to see a doctor if I thought it would make you more inclined to do so.”

“It does not.”

“Please consider it nevertheless,” said Madeleine. “If nothing else, go home and rest. You need it.”

Javert grunted, closing his eyes for a moment.

Madeleine eyed him warily. “If you are experiencing dizziness, it might be an indication of concussion. You did hit your head quite hard.”

“I have had worse,” Javert said when he opened his eyes again. “My dismissal, monsieur?”

“I will consider it,” said Madeleine reluctantly and only for the sake of preventing further argument. “You will continue your duties until I have decided. And after you get better. You are in no state to be working.”

“As you wish, Monsieur le Maire.” Out of habit, Javert made to bow. He barely caught himself in time to keep from staggering forward.

“Shall I have my secretary call you a cab, inspector?”

Javert straightened himself proudly, his eyes bright and defiant. If not for the last few minutes, he indeed seemed perfectly fine.

“No need, monsieur. I need not go far.”

His hands thus tied, Madeleine had no choice but to watch his chief of police walk down the corridor and, by some small miracle, make it down the stairs, too. He followed tentatively, keeping enough distance not be noticed, but staying close enough to keep an eye on the inspector. Javert’s gait was less than half the speed it normally was, but he managed to keep a surprisingly straight stance.

Perhaps it really had been only a moment’s weakness on Javert’s part. But the sweat-soaked collar, the swaying and a likely suspicion of what caused both worried Madeleine greatly. Javert was one to go about business as usual, regardless of personal or physical hindrance. For him to falter like this was a serious signal.

Taking less than a second to decide, Madeleine quickly made his way to the servants’ entrance of the mairie and stepped out into the ally it lead to. As he had hoped, there was a handful of gamin hanging about.

“Boys, do you want to earn a silver piece each?”

“A silver piece!” the four of them cried. “Sure, monsieur!”

“You know Inspector Javert?” By their muttered responses, he could tell they did. “He just left the mairie. Find him and follow him. Don’t let him see you, but find out where he is going and come back to tell me once he gets there.”

“Oui, monsieur!”

“If anything unusual happens, come and tell me, too.”

“Oui, monsieur!” they piped.

“Hurry now. The silver will be waiting for you when you return.”

The better part of an hour passed before they did. The secretary, knowing of the mayor’s tendency to be kind to street urchins, told them to wait while she got Monsieur Madeleine. When he came down the stairs, they gathered around him, speaking all at once.

“Quiet!” Madeleine commanded, not too sternly. “You will each get your coin, regardless of who tells what you saw. But not here.” He led them to the end of a quiet corridor and then eyed the eldest of the gamin. “Well, what did you see?”

“I’m not sure what you’d think he’d do, monsieur,” the boy said, “but the inspector just went to the police station.”

“Did he stop long the way?”

“To catch his breath, maybe, but never for long.”

“Catch his breath?” That was unusual, and worrisome.

“To be honest, monsieur, he wasn’t all there, I think,” the boy volunteered. “I think we could’ve picked his pockets and he wouldn’t’ve known. Which was really strange, ‘cause normally the inspector notices _everything_.”

That was true. Such a lapse in his concentration was unheard of in Javert. Absentmindedly, Madeleine thanked the boys and gave the boys the promised money. Once each had his coin, they scampered off again, leaving him to weigh his options.

So, what to do now? If this had been anyone else, the question would not even have risen. Madeleine knew he would have gone after them and he would have seen to it that they would receive sufficient medical attention.

However, this was Javert. Not only had they been at odds from the moment Madeleine came to office, but Javert was not prone to accept compassion from anyone, let alone from someone he suspected to be an ex-convict. Oh, the prefecture had told the inspector he was mistaken, but there was still a chance that Javert discovered he had not been wrong at all.

Did that risk justify feigning ignorance of what had happened in his office this morning? Madeleine could not in good conscience pretend it did. Javert was absolutely relentless, on himself as much as on others. He would not seek help by choice, no matter how badly he needed it. While he was at the station, there would be other people nearby in case of emergency. Away from the station, however, the inspector was left entirely to his own devices. Which were extremely limited at the moment…

Reaching a decision, Madeleine put on his coat and hat and told his secretary that he had urgent business to attend to that might take some time.

When he stepped outside, the winter wind tugged gently at his coat. The police station was not far from the mairie and normally it would be a nice walk, but this time he hailed a cab and upon arrival at the station, not ten minutes later, promised to pay the driver extra to wait for him there.

Javert was not going to be grateful for the incursion, Madeleine realised. It felt wrong to pull rank on the inspector – Javert would not take it any better now than he had the only other time Madeleine had done that to him – but he decided that he would if need be. Taking a deep breath, Madeleine climbed up the marble steps to the entrance, fully prepared for just about anything.

“Monsieur le Maire!” the sergeant at the reception desk exclaimed as he sprung to attention. “What are you— I mean, how can I help you, monsieur?”

“Is Inspector Javert still here?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I was afraid so. Please tell me someone had the sense to at least _suggest_ that he should be going home instead?”

The sergeant shrugged half-heartedly. “We did try, but Monsieur l’Inspecteur doesn’t take kindly to such suggestions.”

“So I have noticed,” Madeleine muttered and he showed himself in.

None of the gendarmes and clerks in the communal office stopped him or made inquiries as he crossed the room to the closed door on the far end, but they did stare as if expecting to be witness to another row between the mayor and their chief.

The door to Javert’s office was closed. Madeleine rapped it curtly and went inside without waiting for an answer.

He found Javert sat behind his desk, engrossed in writing something that looked much like a letter. When the inspector belatedly registered Madeleine’s presence, he made to stand up but failed. Small wonder, Madeleine noted: Javert was pale as a sheet, his eyes dull and beads of sweat glistened at his temples. He was truly in a deplorable state.

“Javert,” Madeleine began, keeping his voice level, “I will not dismiss you, but I will relieve you of your duties until you are well again.”

The inspector scoffed disdainfully, or tried to. “No need, monsieur,” he said, pulling the paper in front of him closer to continue his work. “Since you refuse to dismiss me, I will do the next best thing and resign.”

Acting a lot calmer than he felt, Madeleine flipped the lid of the inkwell on the desk closed just as Javert made to dip his pen in it.

“I cannot allow you to do that, inspector,” he said, meeting Javert’s furious but unfocused gaze. “You are in no condition to make any kind of decisions, and certainly not one that has such far-reaching consequences for yourself and this town.”

Javert bristled feebly in protest. “I assure you, monsieur, I am—“

“—only a few breaths away from losing consciousness? I am no doctor, Javert, but I have eyes. I don’t know how long you have been hiding this, but it cannot be left untreated any longer. You already fainted once.”

“Monsieur, I—“

“As you live alone and have no one to look after you, I insist that you will be my guest for the coming days.”

Javert’s ashen face turned another shade paler, if that was still possible. “Monsieur, you cannot—“This time it was a cough that cut off his sentence. Madeleine frowned when he heard it. It didn’t bode well.

“I can and I will,” he said firmly. “This is not a request. It is an order. Consider it the punishment you asked for, if that will make it easier for you to accept.” He picked up the letter Javert had been writing, glanced at it, and tore it up. “If you still wish to resign when you can think straight again, then so be it. For now, I will have none of it.” He put the shreds of paper in his coat pocket with the intention to burn them later on. More than half of what Javert had written made little to no sense whatsoever and he would not risk anyone finding it, even in a wastepaper basket. “You are coming with me.”

The inspector glared at his closed inkwell as if it was a personal offense, but did not make to remove the lid. He sighed heavily. “Very well. If you insist, monsieur, I will report to you tonight.”

“No.”

Javert gave him an incomprehensible stare. “No?”

“Not tonight,” said Madeleine decidedly. “You will come with me immediately, regardless of any protestations you might care to make.”

“Immediately…. As in, now?”

“Yes. I will leave you the dignity of walking out of here at your own strength, if you still possess it.”

Javert glowered at him. “Of course I do!”

The quiver in his limbs told another story, but Madeleine still nodded, giving Javert the benefit of the doubt. “Then I will wait for you outside the station.”

Not leaving Javert the chance to draw out the argument, he left the office, pulling the door shut behind him. When he crossed the room, all eyes were on him. He calmly made his way out, but not before stopping to address the senior clerk.

“The inspector will be taking up sick leave for a few days,” he said, keeping his voice down. “If he doesn’t come out in five minutes, help him, will you?”

The clerk nodded knowingly. “Of course, Monsieur le Maire. I will see to it.”

Waiting outside by the fiacre as agreed took entirely too long to Madeleine’s liking, but his watch told him he was merely being impatient. Ten minutes passed at the pace of ten years before Javert appeared, standing tall despite his pale complexion. Madeleine opened the door of the cab and gestured the inspector to get in.

He had expected resistance. He had even prepared an excuse that the cab was for himself, offering the eleven years he had on the younger man as a reason, but it was not necessary. After regarding both him and the cab with obvious reluctance, Javert climbed in without a word. Once Madeleine had sat himself on the opposite bench and the fiacre began to move, he understood why.

Away from the public eye, Javert’s composure fell. He leaned heavily against the back of his seat, abandoning his attempts to keep up the appearance of strength. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps and he seemed to be straining against the tightness around his throat.

“Take off your stock, inspector,” said Madeleine quietly. “I will take no offence.”

In the light that came in through the small window, Madeleine could see that Javert’s eyes had glazed over. For a moment he wondered if the man had even heard him, but then Javert slowly raised his hands to undo the buckle of the stock. The leather strip came away and Javert shoved it into the pocket of his greatcoat. His breathing didn’t ease, but Madeleine could now see that the front of the uniform’s shirt was as wet as the back of the collar had been. It confirmed what Madeleine already suspected: Javert had contracted a fever of some sort and it was getting quite bad.

“How long since the chills started?” he asked conversationally.

The inspector stared out the window without acknowledging anything.

“Javert?” he tried again.

“Hmm?”

“The chills. When did they first start?”

“Oh.” Javert pinched the bridge of his nose. “…the day before last, I believe,” he replied eventually.

Madeleine raised a brow in response, but said nothing. Two days of this. How the man had managed to go about his work as if nothing was wrong was both a mystery and a testimony to his strength of character.

But even the strongest shoulders have a breaking point, and it was sorely obvious that the inspector had reached his.

 


	3. Vertigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the problems begin in earnest...

The shock of the cab coming to a halt was enough to rouse Javert from the fog that had settled in his mind. Blinking a few times to regain his focus, he reached up to his throat. It felt different and not just because it stung whenever he swallowed. Something was missing… His stock, where was…? Oh, yes. He’d taken it off.

Monsieur Madeleine opened the door of the fiacre and got out. The crisp winter air seeped in through the open door and wrapped itself around Javert, cooling his face. It was a welcome sensation after the stifling heat inside the cab. He willed his sore muscles to operate and carry him out of the cramped fiacre. In an attempt at a fluid movement, he misjudged the distance to the street by an inch and his full weight came down on one foot, the jolt making his head ache worse than it already did. Javert held on to the cab’s doorframe for a few seconds while he regained his balance. It did not help that the pavement seemed to be shifting beneath his feet.

“One moment,” Madeleine called out to the driver, hand delving into a pocket of his coat, no doubt to find some change with which to pay the man. Javert didn’t pay either of them any attention. The rocking of the fiacre had stirred his already upset stomach to a point where it was getting hard to ignore the nausea.

“Go on, inspector. Feel free to step inside.”

It took a moment before Javert realised the mayor was addressing him. He frowned, glancing back at the fiacre. “Back into the cab? I though we had arrived already.”

“We have.” Madeleine smiled that infuriatingly commiserate smile of his. “I opened the front door for you,” he urged, pointing at the large doorway behind him. “Please enter. I will be right there, as soon as I have paid the driver.”

“Yes, of course,” Javert said mechanically as he drew himself up. His back and legs were straining terribly in protest, but it would not do for him to show weakness in public. He had a fearsome reputation in town, especially among the criminal element. It was hard-earned and essential to his work, and he would not let something as inconsequential as physical inconvenience ruin it.

The scents of wood wax and silver polish assaulted his nostrils without warning. Taken aback, Javert realised he was standing in the mayor’s vestibule, but had no recollection of actually walking to the house and crossing the threshold. No matter. He waited by the foot of the stairs, hat in hand, for a housekeeper to show up. No one came. Not even the mayor, who was taking his precious time paying the cab driver.

While Javert waited, his eye was drawn to the black-and-white chequered tiles on the floor. They made a mesmerising pattern of expanding and receding squares, which he stared at with some fascination before it dawned on him that the tiles were probably not moving at all. He snapped his head up and glanced at the still open front door.

The door frame shrank as he watched, dragging the ceiling down with it; something he was quite sure should be physically impossible.

“Damn it!” Javert muttered, running a hand over his clammy face and pressing his fingers hard against his eyes. It hurt, but he considered it just penance for their mutiny.

Keeping his eyes shut made him all the more aware of the throbbing in his skull. The headache had been nagging at him for days, but now it had compounded into a big rock that hammered in his head to the beat of his racing pulse. Which was the worst of it all: his heart was continuously pounding as if he had just been chasing a thief halfway across town, when in reality he had done nothing but stand still. Yesterday, it had been annoying, but now it exhausted him to the point of debilitation. Still he stood up straight. It was bad enough the mayor had seen him falter. It would be unacceptable for anyone else to bear witness to such weakness.

Out of the blue, a hand touched his shoulder and he started with a surprised gasp.

“Why are you still standing?” said Madeleine, his tone severe as if he had caught Javert in the act of committing a cardinal sin.

Javert blinked, hoping his vision would stop swimming. “Your housekeeper,” he said. “She’d have a fright if a policeman came in unannounced.”

The mayor tsk-ed, shaking his head. “The last thing you ought to concern yourself with right now is startling middle-aged ladies,” he said. “She could handle it, if she were here. Which she is not.”

“I see…”

It shouldn’t have made a difference to know the house was empty but for the mayor and himself. It really should not. But it did. Before he knew it, his carefully guarded composure was gone and the nausea that had been edging at his stomach during the cab ride came on at full force.

With a low groan Javert doubled over, his hand finding support on the banister of the staircase by accident only. Madeleine spoke to him, but he didn’t hear the words. His whole world revolved around the convulsions of his body as it attempted to purge the contents of his already empty stomach. Dry heaves wrecked him, one after the other. He could taste the bile at the back of his throat but forced himself to swallow it. A hand steadied him as he fought the spasms in his torso. His pride rebuked the gesture, but part of him was intensely grateful for the support it gave.  

Eventually the convulsions died down, but the episode left Javert shaking and sweating all over. He leaned heavily on the banister, head resting against his hand as he tried to catch his breath.

“Calm down,” Madeleine’s voice whispered while a hand rubbed slow circles over his back. “Calm down now. I take it you didn’t eat much recently?”

“Didn’t bother,” Javert muttered. “Can’t keep it down…”

“That’s all right, I understand.”

Madeleine’s intonation betrayed that it most certainly was _not_ all right, but Javert knew that much himself. He hadn’t eaten properly in two days. Anything more substantial than water hadn’t agreed with him. Even tea put up a fight.

By and by the nausea ebbed away and he slowly pushed himself up to stand straight again.

“Better now?” asked Madeleine.

Javert honestly didn’t know the answer to that. The convulsions had made him feel hot, tired and foggy. He took a deep breath to clear his mind, but it didn’t help much. If anything, his stomach made to roil again. “I think… I think I’d like to sit down,” he said weakly.

The mayor gently patted his shoulder. “I know a very good place where you can sit down. Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”

Javert craned his head to take stock of the flight of steps. Madeleine might as well have asked him to scale the Mont Blanc.

“Yes,” he said despite himself and drew another deep breath, imposing his will on his shaking body. He put his foot on the first step. The muscles of his thigh trembled visibly beneath the fabric of his uniform. “… just not right now,” he added.

“Take you time,” Madeleine encouraged. “Whenever you feel up to it.”

He did not, and would not any time soon. Plain and simple. But staying here in the vestibule was not an option either.

“What is upstairs?” he asked in a faraway voice. He grimaced when he heard it. “Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

Madeleine pretended to be oblivious of the apology. “The guestroom is, inspector,” he replied. “Or did you think I let my guests sleep on the sofa?”

“I did not think you to ever entertain guests at all, monsieur.”

With his exasperation at the mayor’s expense came an unexpected surge of determination. Not one to waste opportunity, Javert started up the stairs. He made it to the top, too. At least, he _must_ have, because when the dark spots finally disappeared from his vision, he was leaning against the wall of the first floor landing, panting so hard it made him cough.

“Not far now,” he heard Madeleine say. “Then you can sit down for as long as you like.”

Sit down… God, yes. His legs were killing him after that climb. Anything to sit down and finally catch his damn breath! No matter how he tried, he kept gasping, caught between gulping for air and a coughing fit that didn’t stop. His parched throat was no help, either. He tried to swallow, hoping to moisten the back of his throat, but his mouth was too dry for there to be anything he could swallow. He was sweating plenty, though. He could feel the heat rise off his collar.

“Javert?” Madeleine sounded concerned, almost to the point of anxiety. “Javert? Can I help?”

He tried to stop coughing long enough to speak, but before he could utter a word, his over-exerted muscles refused to carry his weight any longer. Without a warning, his legs gave way and he collapsed.

“Good God!” Madeleine exclaimed as he grabbed hold of Javert’s coat to hold him up before he could hurt himself.

Javert blindly grasped the man’s wrists, no sure whether he wanted them to hold on or let go. The world skewed sickeningly and it was impossible to tell which way was up. Breath coming in short, nearly desperate huffs, he groped for Madeleine’s arm like a drowning man to a buoy as the mayor lowered him, propping him up against what Javert thought was the wall.

He closed his eyes against the nauseating vertigo, only to snap them open when a calloused hand framed his forehead. It felt ice cold to him.

“Oh dear God above,” Madeleine muttered under his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me it was _this_ bad?”

He couldn’t say. Still breathing hard, he tried to look at Madeleine, but lacked the concentration to do so, never mind voice a reply if he’d had one.

Madeleine ran his cold fingers down Javert’s face. “You should get out of your coat; it’s too hot. Come, let me help you.”

Unable and unwilling to resist, Javert let himself be pulled into leaning away from the wall far enough for his heavy greatcoat to slide from his shoulders and down his arms. The thick wool had been too hot, yes, but without it he was cold again. He began to shiver.

“Don’t move,” said Madeleine, resting him back against the wall. “I will be back shortly. Do you understand me?”

Javert nodded, tilting his head back while trying to breathe. He had stopped coughing, but he was still perpetually short of breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Madeleine ran down the oscillating stairs and disappear from sight.

The mayor was away for some time. Javert couldn’t tell how long, but neither did he care. He wasn’t aware of Madeleine’s return until the man knelt in front of him again, a glass and a rag in hand. As it turned out, they both contained water.

Javert greedily gulped down the water in the glass as soon as Madeleine put it to his lips. He clasped his hands over Madeleine’s in order to keep drinking when the glass threatened to be taken away from him.

“No so fast,” Madeleine chided. “It will do you no good if it upsets your stomach.”

Javert didn’t care. “More,” he muttered, letting go only when it was empty.

“Be patient,” said Madeleine as he folded the damp cloth. “You can have some more, but first we must get you to bed.” He gently held the saturated rag to Javert’s neck.

Javert gasped at the sudden icy chill. It shot through his body like lightning, instantly clearing the fog from his mind. His eyes widened sharply.

“All there again?” Madeleine asked.

“Yes!” Javert hissed through clenched teeth. “Sweet Mother of God…!”

“Good. Now stand.” Madeleine took hold of Javert’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Between the wall and the mayor, Javert managed to keep standing, albeit unsteadily.

“Your room is right through there,” said Madeleine with a nod at the nearest door.

The sudden cold of the cloth in his neck had caused such a jolt of energy that Javert found the strength to walk into the room with a bare minimum of support. Still he stumbled the last few steps, when the room began to shift on him again. Madeleine caught him under the arm.

“Hold on to the footboard,” he said, guiding Javert within reach of the bed frame. “I need to turn down the covers.”

Javert nodded, fully focussed on the task of staying upright as ordered. It was easier to think of it as an order. His body followed the orders of his superiors almost off its own accord. Perhaps that was why he had been so easily swayed when the mayor had ordered him to come with him, he though idly. There was something compelling to the man’s voice, although Javert hesitated to name it.

“There. Come and sit down now,” said Madeleine.

Two steps. It was two steps from the footboard to the side of the bed, but he couldn’t make it without help. He closed his eyes when the room upended itself, trusting Madeleine to keep him from falling as he lowered himself onto the mattress. It gave in gently to his weight.

Madeleine said something, but he didn’t hear. His mind was fully focussed on the sheets under his hands. They were soft, and cool, and terribly, _terribly_ inviting…

He was unconscious before his head hit the pillow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update may take some time, as this story is rapidly become more extensive than I first thought. But don't worry: there is plenty of heated suffering and h/c to come! 
> 
> Honestly, there must be a special circle of Hell for people who love to torture characters as much as I do.


	4. Come Undone

Madeleine watched with trepidation as Javert literally keeled over on the bed. _His_ bed, because while he did have a guestroom, it had never been used and Javert was clearly in no condition to wait until the room was aired and the bed made.

His fingers combed nervously through his beard. Obviously he had known Javert was ill when he decided to bring him here. That had been the whole point. That is was quite this bad, however, he truly had not expected.

“I took you for a smarter man, inspector,” he said out loud as he removed Javert’s boots and stockings and lifted the long legs onto the bed. “Seeing you through a bout of influenza, that I can deal with. This, I’m not so sure.” He went to his closet to retrieve two small towels and a clean shirt, the largest he owned. “When I sent the cab driver to fetch a doctor, I thought it was merely a precaution, but if that cough is any indication, you might be better off in the hospital after all.”

As the words left his lips, Madeleine felt his stomach plummet. The hospital was a good one; he’d seen to it that it was. But it was also inherently impersonal. The sisters nursed every patient to the best of their ability, but they did not fight death. After all, if a patient died, what else could it be but God’s will?

Not that he would go against God’s will, but if it was all the same, he wanted Javert to live. Against all odds, if need be.

He didn’t dwell on that thought too long. Introspection was a virtue, but right now he needed his wits about him for more practical purposes. Grabbing the jug from the washstand and heading for the kitchen, he told himself that, yes, Javert was very ill, but there was no point in jumping to conclusions on the true severity. That was for Dr Renoir to decide when he came.

Setting his mind instead to the more immediate tasks, Madeleine filled the jug with water from the bucket that Madame Prost had drawn from the pump that morning. The water was still fresh and cool, but not too cold. At the same time, warmth would be in order, too. He ended up carrying the heavy jug up the stairs while balancing a few logs of firewood and a tinderbox on his other arm.

Back in the bedroom, the first thing he did was make a fire in the hearth. As soon as the flames had sufficient purchase on the wood to keep burning, he moved the washstand closer to the bed, poured a measure of water in the basin and dropped one of the towels in the water to soak. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and observed the inspector.

Javert breathed slower and deeper now. Madeleine suspected he was asleep. It pained him to disturb that much-needed rest, but he had to.

“Javert,” he nudged, “you need to get out of your uniform.”

Madeleine was quite relieved when he got no reply. The lack of cooperation wouldn’t make the task any easier, but if Javert managed to sleep through being manhandled out of his uniform and into a clean shirt, so much the better.

He first removed the cuff links from Javert’s shirt, so the sleeves wouldn’t hitch at the wrists when they came off. Next he undid the front panel of the jacket, which came away easily. The sturdy woollen fabric beneath it, though, was completely soaked through with sweat.

With a pang of concern, Madeleine glanced at Javert’s face. “What on Earth made you think it was a sound idea to come into work this morning?” he said accusingly, retrieving the still wet rag he had used earlier from the nightstand. Folding it until onto a cool patch, he gently draped it over the inspector’s forehead. He wasn’t sure if it would help any, but it felt right to do so anyway.

The actual fastenings of the jacket were small buttons, usually hidden by the now removed front panel. Prying these buttons through their sodden button holes proved to be surprisingly difficult. Javert was oblivious of Madeleine’s efforts. At least, until the last button came away and the jacket fell open, exposing the heated and equally soaked shirt to the cool air. Javert shivered violently and turned to his side, trying to curl himself around Madeleine’s back.

“It’s cold, I know,” Madeleine said with the kind voice he might use on a child. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit colder still. Come, lay on your back.” 

Javert muttered something unintelligible, but didn’t resist when Madeleine pushed him back so he could reach the buttons of the shirt. These came loose much more quickly. As he undid them, Madeleine felt the sweltering heat radiating from Javert’s chest beneath his hands. He prayed that it felt worse than it was, silently fearing that the opposite was true.

This done, he gently shook Javert by the shoulder until he got a response. “Can you sit up for me?” he asked.

Javert didn’t move. Only in second instance he began to push himself up. His eyes were still closed and his movements lacked the strength to be of much help, but Madeleine could now slide his hands under Javert’s back and neck. Thus supporting him, he carefully lifted the inspector’s shoulders upright, so he could sit behind him. In this position he could easily divest Javert of the sodden clothes, peeling the clammy fabric from the muscular arms and back as the inspector’s head rested against his shoulder.

It was, Madeleine admitted, an added benefit that during his prison sentence, he had grown used to being around naked, sweating men. He had long since lost the ability to be prudish and the smell did not bother him much, either. This close, Madeleine could even make out Javert’s own musky scent underneath the overbearing presence of sweat.

When Madeleine tugged the shirt loose from Javert’s waistband, the inspector’s eyes fluttered open. He had started to tremble all over, teeth chattering despite the searing heat inside him.

“Just bear with me a little longer,” Madeleine implored, pulling both the wet and the dry towel down from the washstand. From the first, he wrung as much water as he could with one hand and then rubbed it steadily over the inspector’s chest and arms. Javert gasped, arching back and into him.

“Calm now, it’s almost done,” Madeleine whispered soothingly, wiping away the sweat and the heat from the inspector’s toned body. Javert writhed in his arms. “Shhhh,” Madeleine hushed as he tossed the wet towel aside and used the other to dry off the droplets that ran down Javert’s torso.

“C-c-cold…” Javert muttered, clawing at nothing to cover himself for warmth.

“It will be better soon, I promise,” Madeleine replied as he gathered the clean shirt off the headboard and guided Javert’s arms into the sleeves. It was really a size too small, he realised when he reached around Javert’s broad chest. Only the buttons of the lower half of the shirt met up with their respective button holes. Along the length of the inspector’s sternum, the flushed skin remained exposed.

Just as well, Madeleine thought. Javert might be shivering, but the thick fabric of his uniform and greatcoat had only made matters worse, not better. If nothing else, this way he was less likely to get too hot again.

He gently cradled Javert as he lowered the man back on the mattress. Javert made a soft noise, but otherwise did not stir. Madeleine was silently grateful for that, wanting to spare the proud inspector the awareness of being stripped of his breeches.

Feeling along the waistband for the fastenings, Madeleine noticed that it was as sodden as the shirt, and its buttons gave him just as much trouble. He could not help the palm of his hand pressing down on Javert’s hip as he put force behind a particularly stubborn button. It came loose with a jerk that rocked the mattress. Almost instantly a large, heated hand clamped down on his, making him look up.

Javert struggled to sit up, fever-bright eyes locked on Madeleine.

“Monsieur,” he whispered. “Don’t. It’s not…” He trailed off, eyes losing focus again. “It’s not…”

Not what? Decent? Necessary? “You can’t keep them on,” said Madeleine calmly. “Please, lay back and let me.” 

For a moment Javert seemed to want to protest, but lethargy weighed heavier than prudence and the inspector let himself fall back on the pillow, releasing Madeleine’s hand to finish what he had begun.

Fortunately Javert was wearing long drawers beneath his uniform and the breeches slid off his legs with a few strategic tugs. Madeleine didn’t bother to fold them before putting them with the crumpled heap consisting of the jacket and shirt. Then he considered the drawers. The sweat-soaked linen clung uncomfortably to Javert’s skin, hiding so little of the inspector’s anatomy that he might as well have been truly naked. Still Madeleine decided not to rile him any further, especially not now Javert began to drift off to sleep despite the occasional shiver. Instead he proceeded to unfold the blankets piled at the foot of the bed and pulled them up to Javert’s chest.

It seemed to him that Javert didn’t sweat so much anymore, and there was a hint of colour in his pale face, too. Whether that was a good thing or not, he did not know, but at least the inspector was calm now. Calm enough to not even stir when Madeleine lightly touched his brow to wipe away a strand of his long hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapters = ensured regular updates for the coming week while RL events gobble up my writing time. (I'm not sacrificing content, though. Javert's in it for the long haul, and Madeleine will be facing some split-personality problems of his own.)


	5. 'Tricolor'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so forget what I said about shorter chapters. It's not happening. I'm enjoying this too much.

The afternoon progressed dreadfully slowly. For the first hour after he had gotten Javert settled in, Madeleine waited impatiently for Dr Renoir to arrive. However, soon enough it became obvious that the doctor was delayed and would not return with the cab as instructed. There was nothing for it but to wait for him to turn up in his own time.

To keep busy while the clocked ticked, Madeleine gathered the sodden uniform in the laundry basket for his housekeeper to see to, cleared up some clutter in his study and made himself a copious amount of tea. Twice, he went upstairs to check on Javert, but the inspector slept the sleep of the exhausted and didn’t so much as turn beneath the covers.

Madeleine returned to his study, preparing a sheet of paper and a pen to write a letter of instructions to his secretary. But less then halfway through the first paragraph, he put his pen down and went back to the bedroom. Nothing had changed in the last ten minutes. Of course it hadn’t.

Restless in mind and body, he glanced at his watch. It told him it was nearly two o’clock. He again paced to his study to finish the letter, but he left the doors of both the bedroom and the study ajar, just in case. He perked his ears when he sat down, as if doing so would make the doorbell ring. It did not. Disappointed, he fretted with his pen for a moment and then continued to write.

To say Madeleine’s mayoral patience did not come as easy as it normally did, was an understatement. Beneath the pristine appearance of the magistrate, something old had begun to make its presence known. Something that was a lot more volatile and a lot more emotional than Madeleine had ever been. He did not like feeling its presence, but it was there, goaded into awareness at having heard its name called for the first time in eight years.

_Jean Valjean._

The pen stopped. Madeleine sighed. It was foolish to believe his past would never catch up with him, no matter how hard he worked to keep it hidden. It may have taken a long time, but now Javert had recognised him. Madeleine put it down to the inspector’s poor condition that he had believed what the prefecture had told him. Had he been well, Madeleine was sure that Javert would not have accepted their reply so readily as to demand his dismissal because of it.

No, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. The eventual discovery of his true identity was inevitable now. He might as well go to Arras and denounce himself to the court. It would save time and save an innocent man from being sent to the bagne in his place.

The bagne… Madeleine gritted his teeth. Inside him, Valjean recoiled at the memory. 

Suddenly a splash of red in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he tensed. Snapping his head to get a better look at it, he saw it was the red band of the pocket-size national flag that stood at the corner of his desk.

He exhaled deeply, realising with great sadness that for all his efforts, the convict in him was still very much alive. He would forever be skittish at the sight of red fabric. Not because it reminded him of blood stains, but because despite the fancy clothes he could now afford, the red shirt of the convict was never far away. Sometimes he would feel as if he still wore it, the red hems barely hidden by his overcoat.

That feeling was especially poignant when he was around Javert.  Javert, whose uniform was blue and the social, moral and ultimate polar opposite to the convict’s red. Javert, who had seen Madeleine for was he was in spite of the great pains he’d taken to remove every trace of Valjean. Javert, whose very presence was a danger to Madeleine and Valjean both. Javert, who now occupied Madeleine’s bed, practically senseless with fever. Helpless, vulnerable.

Just like he had been…

A heavy weight pressed on his mind as he recalled a night, years ago, when a bishop invited a helpless but dangerous man into his home. A man he had every reason to mistrust. A man who would hurt and possibly ruin him – and did! Yet knowing this had not stopped Monseigneur Myriel from giving food and shelter to this man, or giving him what he needed to better his life: benediction for his soul and precious silver to find his way in the world. 

Of course Madeleine never would claim a bishop’s sanctity, but neither was he an ungrateful man. If Monseigneur Myriel could find it in his heart to help a man who posed a threat to him, then surely Madeleine could at least try to do the same? Valjean had been tired, cold and starving when the bishop had taken pity on him. Javert was exhausted, feverish and unable to retain sustenance. For all their differences, the similarities were ironically clear.

The red of the little flag still stood out sharply. He ran his fingers along it, accidentally unfurling it and revealing all three colours of the _tricolor_. The red of the convict’s shirt on one end, the blue of the police uniform on the other. And in between the unpretentious, innocent white. The white of the shirt he wore now. The white of the shirt he had dressed Javert in. They now were neither convict nor police officer, but simply two men: equals on neutral ground.

Madeleine stared at the white band on the flag in silent amazement, now convinced that he had done the right thing by taking Javert into his care.

He picked up his pen and continued his letter, telling his secretary he would not be coming to the office for a few days and including instructions on how to deal with the various open issues that might come up in his absence. Perhaps the instructions were a bit too extensive, but he did not want them to come and find him here for any but the most immediate emergencies. He would be having his hands full enough already.

Finding a gamin who would deliver the letter for him in exchange for a coin was not a problem: the first one he saw when he stepped outside was happy to oblige him. When he shut the door again, letter on its way, the pendulum clock in the parlour chimed four times.

Four o’clock. Madeleine frowned. Nearly half a day had passed since he had sent for the doctor. Even if Dr Renoir had been busy, surely the man should have been here by now? Unless of course the cab driver hadn’t been as trustworthy as he had appeared to be, but Madeleine felt that such cynicism was uncalled for. He would wait another hour, he decided as he climbed the stairs. If Dr Renoir had still not answered by then, he would send for him again.

When he entered the bedroom, Madeleine saw that the light from the hearth was dying down. He put two more logs on the fire and then approached the bed.

Javert had become restless now. He looked tense in his sleep, fingers clenched tightly in the folds of the blankets. A nightmare, Madeleine supposed. And a nasty one at that. Worried, he tentatively brushed Javert’s forehead. The inspector instantly pulled away from the touch. So did Madeleine, if only for a second. A deep frown creasing his brow, he pressed his hand to Javert’s skin again, more firmly this time. An intense, dry heat burned fiercely against his palm.

“This cannot wait another hour,” Madeleine growled to himself. He soaked one of the towels, wrung it well and carefully wiped the inspector’s face and neck with the cool cloth. Javert drew a sharp breath at the touch. The gulp of air must have stung, because it immediately triggered a furious coughing fit that tore through the inspector’s whole body. Not knowing what else to do, Madeleine supported him as best he could, whispering soothingly.

When the coughing finally subsided, Javert turned on his side, moaning into his hand.

“Javert? Are you awake?”

A muttered grunt was the only answer, but Javert did turn back to look at him with glassy eyes. Then a shrill bell echoed through the house.

“That must be the doctor,” Madeleine said hopefully. “Stay awake for me. Can you do that?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Javert nodded.

“Good man. I will be right back.”

He hurried down the stairs two steps at a time and practically yanked the door open. A deep sigh of relief escaped him when he found a small, severe-looking man in a black suit and a round top hat standing on his doorstep.

“Dr Renoir, at last!”

The man stepped inside with short, curt strides as Madeleine gestured him to come in.

“I apologise for the delay, Monsieur le Maire. I had a patient quite literally bleeding to death on my doorstep and I understood from your courier that you required me as a matter of course only.”

“So it was this morning,” said Madeleine tersely. “Since then I have come to the conclusion that I completely misjudged the situation. Please come this way.” He led the way up the stairs.

“You seem in fine health, monsieur,” the doctor ventured as he followed. “What ails you?”

“Not me. I called for you on behalf of Inspector Javert.”

He showed Renoir into the bedroom. At the sound of their footsteps, Javert slowly opened his eyes.

“I see,” Dr Renoir said gravely. He sat down on the edge of the bed, studying Javert intently. “Monsieur l’Inspecteur? Good day. My name is Doctor Renoir.”

He used the typical, condescending tone used by doctors everywhere when addressing a patient. Under better circumstances, Madeleine imagined Javert would have clipped the man around the ears for using it on him. But the circumstances were not better, and the inspector remained completely unresponsive to the doctor’s words.

Dr Renoir noticed this, too. “Monsieur, can you tell me what is wrong?”

Javert obviously could not. Madeleine wasn’t even sure he had understood the question properly. Not wanting to waste time, he took it on himself to quickly explain the doctor all he knew of Javert’s condition. Dr Renoir nodded severely as he listened. Then he addressed his patient again.

“I will need to do a few examinations, inspector. It won’t take long, but it is necessary.” The doctor glanced over his shoulder. “If you would be so good as to leave us for a moment, Monsieur le Maire.”

Reluctantly, Madeleine complied, closing the door behind him before going downstairs to make himself – and hopefully Javert - some tea.

“Oh, Monsieur Madeleine,” a woman’s voice exclaimed as he entered the kitchen. It was Madame Prost, the housekeeper. “Are you all right, monsieur? I saw the doctor stepping into the house just as I came around the corner and I was so worried for you.”

He couldn’t help but smile kindly at her and proceeded to explain the situation as briefly as possible. “So,” he concluded, “if you would be so good to prepare a light soup for the inspector in addition to what evening meal you had in mind for me, I would be most grateful.”

“But of course, monsieur. Oh, that poor man! I will make him a nice _bouillon_ , monsieur, rest assured.” That he would. Madame Prost was a fine cook indeed.

Knowing better than to stay in a kitchen with a woman bustling about, Madeleine went back to his study to wait. It did not give him the distraction he hoped for. What work he could do was done and his desk was empty. Empty but for the wise little flag. He looked at it and smiled wryly. Yes, come what may, he would see this decision through. Perhaps, God willing, there was a chance that he could make his peace with the inspector. If not, he would still be content to care for the man, see him back to health as best he could. If he could…

When he heard footsteps on the stairs, Madeleine hurried to meet Dr Renoir in the vestibule. But at seeing the man’s expression, a sickening knot of anxiety tied his innards.

“Well, doctor?”

“Pneumonia brought on by a neglected influenza,” Dr Renoir stated matter-of-factly. “The affected part of the lung is not very extensive as yet, but his temperature is higher than I should like under the circumstances and appears to be rising still. I did perform a minor bleeding on him to extract the worst of the bad humours, but whether it has been effective will not become apparent until the morning.”

Madeleine swallowed hard, his throat bone-dry at hearing his fears confirmed. “Is he in danger?”

“An infection of the lungs is never to be taken lightly, but the inspector is a strong man. With rest and nourishment I expect he should recover in time. However, he will require a lot of care in the near future. I therefore recommend that he is transported to the hospital at the earliest convenience.”

Without a second thought, Madeleine shook his head. “The sisters have too many patients already, especially in this time of year. They have no time to provide such intensive care, either. No, I will see to it that he is cared for here. If you would be so good as to call on him daily, doctor, I would appreciate that very much.”

Dr Renoir gave him a long, scrutinizing look, but then nodded. “Very well, Monsieur le Maire. Notwithstanding another arterial bleeding to see to, I shall call again in the morning. In the mean time, you should see to it that the inspector is kept calm, cool and drinks as much as possible. I will have the apothecary send a bottle of chloroform to ensure his rest.” The doctor touched his hat. “Good day, monsieur. Do not bother, I will see myself out.”

Madeleine stared after the doctor until the front door shut. Only then did he dare to scale the stairs again.

The doctor had lit the oil lamp on the bedside table. The yellowish light cast shadows on Javert’s still face. His lips were partly slightly, breath escaping in short puffs. Madeleine meant to be as silent as possible, but when his shoe accidentally scraped over the wooden floor, Javert woke nevertheless.

“It’s only me,” Madeleine whispered. “I did not mean to disturb you.”

Javert leaned back in the pillow. “… you didn’t.”

Most likely a lie, judging from the way the inspector looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes that he could barely keep open. Yet Madeleine intended to make good use of it.

“I’m glad you woke. You should drink. Would you like some water?”

“…I would.”

Madeleine poured some from the jug into the glass that had been left on the nightstand since this morning. He sat down beside Javert, supporting him as he helped the man drink. He felt the heat of Javert’s body burn through the shirt. It was disconcerting, just as it was to see those normally so capable hands shake with effort simply to lift a glass.

“Dr Renoir said he had bled you,” Madeleine remarked when he put the glass away.

Javert hummed, hitching up the sleeve of his left arm to reveal a narrow bandage on his lower arm. It was well-wrapped, but still Madeleine wished the doctor hadn’t done it. He knew from experience that bleeding a patient rarely helped, while the wounds were quick to infect. Another point of attention for him to keep in mind.

Gently, he tugged the sleeve down Javert’s bare arm, idly noting the poetic metaphor of the white fabric separating his skin from Javert’s the same way as the white band in the _tricolor_ divided the red and the blue. At least, until Javert suddenly grasped at the back of his hand and the poetry was gone.

Madeleine started at the unexpected touch, inexplicably afraid of having been discovered. He barely dared to look at the inspector, but when he did, he instantly forgot his own anxiety. The expression of pure fear in Javert’s feverish eyes was so evident as to be painful.

“I don’t… not the hospital,” Javert whispered, tightening his grip on Madeleine’s hand. “Please…”

It was the plea that got to Madeleine most. “Not the hospital. You will stay right here,” he said in his most reassuring voice. He made to return the grasp, squeezing gently. “It will be all right. You are safe now. I promise.”

For the longest time, Madeleine did not release Javert’s hand, not even when the inspector’s fingers slackened gradually as he sank into a deep sleep. In fact he did not so much as look up until Madame Prost came to inform him that dinner was ready.

Javert should eat, too, he realised. Yet he did not dare wake the man. True sleep was infinitely better than whatever the chloroform that the doctor prescribed could induce. Feeding Javert any kind of food would have to wait. No matter. Madeleine strongly suspected that the inspector couldn’t stomach it anyway, and the broth would surely keep until that improved.

“Monsieur?” called Madame Prost from the landing. “Your dinner is getting cold, monsieur.”

“Yes, Madame. You are right. I’m coming.”

Very carefully, he laid Javert’s hand on the sheets and got up. Outside, night descended.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this time it's mostly dealing with praticalities and setting the stage for the deeper feels later on. Which we will be getting more evident soon, don't worry. Like it says in the tags: slow burn ;D


	6. The Prison of my Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating a little ahead of schedule because I won't have time tomorrow.  
> This one’s something of an experiment for me. If it makes no sense, blame Javert. I just write it as he sees it.

Under the glaring sun, prisoners were fighting everywhere, turning on guards, on each other. Shouts Javert did not hear deafened him. His uniform stuck to him uncomfortably in the heat, hampering his movements. Out of the blue, a prisoner came at him. He beat the man down with his cudgel, but one strike wasn’t enough. He had to finish it. He had to. He tried to, but his sleeves were glued to his skin, making it so hard to raise the cudgel again. It was knocked from his hand and fell in the sand, where it slithered away like a snake, out of reach.

A hard blow on his back and he fell, too. Prisoners gathered around him like crows on a corpse. He wanted to struggle to his feet, but they started beating him all at once. The bright light made it impossible to see anything, but he felt the blows all the better. He tried to shield himself, tried to put his arms over his head and pull up his knees while blows like sledge hammers fell on every inch of his body. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. He was in chains, shackled like the convicts. He wrestled the chain, but the man holding it was at least three times his size. A heavy foot came down on his arm, breaking it. He screamed.

Suddenly cold shards shot through his body. His assailants were no longer there, vanished in a haze. Icy water splashed his face and suddenly fists the size of his head ripped away the shackles, picked him up and tossed him in a corner, away from the fighting crowd. It was cooler here, out of the sun's reach. Sick to his stomach and his head throbbing, Javert tried to see who was responsible. The sunlight blinded him, but still he could see green eyes above a heavy beard, telling him wordlessly to stay down.

Javert knew who it was. Numerals danced before his eyes, daring him to name them. He saw them, but the words eluded him. There was a one, and a four, and a… a…

“…six…”

Another splash of water hit his face, doing little to douse the heat of the sun on his skin. He opened his eyes, unaware that he had ever closed them. He strained to see in the unexpected darkness that surrounded him. Unable to recognise anything, he struggled to find which way was up. His stomach protested when he moved and a painful burn knifed in his chest. He twisted to get away from it, but something large and heavy stopped him.

“No, no. Lay still,” said a deep, pleasant voice.

Javert gasped, instantly recognising the familiar tones. Despite himself he obeyed that voice. God help him, but he did.

More water trickled down his face as something cold and wet pressed against his brow. His breath hitched first, but quickly became a whimper of relief. His whole body felt superheated, as if the sun had set not behind the horizon but had sunk into his body, burning him from the inside out. The cold moved to the side of his face and down to his throat, not extinguishing that fire, but cooling the flames even so.

The cold bliss lifted without warning. He moaned its loss, reaching out an unsteady hand for it. He didn’t find the water, but an equally cool hand found his.

“I’m right here,” that same voice said, speaking soothingly.

Javert hissed as the cold on his forehead returned. Yet he leaned into it, longing for the relief it gave. It slowly traced the path down his face and throat again, coming to rest over his thrashing heart.

“Pain…” he muttered hoarsely, pressing his body deeper into the mattress. He clawed at the knives in his chest, but the hand that had held him turned into a vice that pulled his fingers away.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” the deep voice commanded with an authority Javert had never expected it to carry. In the dim light, a face drew closer. The face that belonged with that voice. He breathed deeply, but it ached. He winced.

“My…” He couldn’t remember the word. He wanted to wrest his hand loose to gesture, but the grip was too strong. “Please,” he added feebly, “it burns…”

“Your chest?” said Valjean gently. “I would imagine it does. Your lungs are infected and your heart is pounding to fight it.”

Javert heard the words, but they sounded foreign. They made no sense. He tried to recall their meaning but failed when the insistent churning of his stomach suddenly drew all his attention. His mouth started to salivate and the back of his jaw tensed, heralding the convulsions already about to set in. He moaned in pain, turning to his side.

“Feeling sick?” Valjean asked in concern.

Javert had barely understood the question when the first convulsion hit him. Strong hands hoisted him up and hung him head first over the edge of a dark abyss. The second convulsion brought up a bitter taste in the back of his throat, but nothing more. He was briefly aware of a firm grip on his arm that kept him from falling, while another hand swept back the long tresses of his hair.

More convulsions tore through him in quick succession, each one more painful and more futile than the last, making him give up nothing more but bile and spit. He gasped for air when he could and tried to swallow the acid taste in his mouth. 

Finally, after waiting an eternity without his stomach clenching in on itself, he dared to hope it had stopped. Exhausted and panting, he laid his head on the edge of the dark precipice. Something soft wiped gently across his mouth.

“You really should drink, but I do not think now is the time,” said Valjean.

“… I am thirsty,” Javert breathed.

Valjean murmured. “Very well, a little then.”

A hand in his neck helped him drink. The water was not cold. It fell heavily in his empty stomach, but made no immediate attempt to come back again. Three sips was all he could manage before the arm he rested on buckled under his weight.

“It’s dark,” he remarked as he lay down on the pillow. “Last I remember it was… noon, I believe. How long have I been out?”

“It’s well past midnight,” Valjean replied. “You slept through most of the afternoon and all of the evening.”

Javert frowned. “That’s… I do not recall that you hit me _that_ hard.”

It was difficult to make out the details of Valjean’s face, but he seemed surprised. “I never hit you,” he said defensively.

“You didn’t… but you did shove me in that corner.”

There was a moment of silence. “You mean when you collapsed on the landing?”

“Was it a landing? Is that what it’s called? Maybe…” He took a shaky, painful breath. “I should thank you,” Javert said, softer now. “I think you saved my life there...”

“You exaggerate,” Valjean scoffed. “You are very ill, but not dying.”

Javert tried to get his mind around that reply. “Don’t speak nonsense,” he argued weakly, biting back a cough. “If not for your interference, those convicts would have beaten me to death…” He groaned as Valjean’s face began to oscillate. “Stop spinning.” Or that was what he wanted to say. His mouth garbled the sound. He tried again, but his lips couldn’t work out how to pronounce the last word. “Stop gl… Stop vst…” He growled, angry at his incompetence. “Stop…. Oh, just sit still, will you!”

But Valjean didn’t. He bore down on Javert, towering impossibly high over him while reaching down a hand from those immense heights. It came to rest on the side of his face, the touch cold yet scalding at the same time. Javert closed his eyes to steady himself.

“You are truly burning up,” Valjean said quietly. The hand disappeared and was replaced by something cold and wet. Javert shivered.

“Valjean, don’t.”

He heard a soft gasp next to him, but perhaps it was a rat. There were plenty of those around here.

“Shh, be still,” Valjean whispered. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“I do!” he countered, agitated by the accusation.

The cold was pressed against his neck, droplets running beneath his collar. “Is that so? Where are you, then?”

“Toulon Prison, of course,” he bit in reply. “Where else?”

There was a long silence. He opened his eyes to see, but the room twisted too much to recognise anything in it or even discern where Valjean was. Feeling his stomach turn, he closed them again.

“If this truly is Toulon, then I am a convict to you. And you are a guard,” said Valjean tentatively.

Javert grunted a confirmation. His head was hurting too much to think about what was obvious.

“If that is so,” Valjean asked, “then why am I here with you?”

Such insensible questions. “Prison riot…” he muttered.

“What was that you said?”

His eyes snapped open. “Prison riot,” he repeated with as much force as he could. “Fights everywhere… You saved me, but since you are here and not in a cell, I can only assume the prisoners won and…” He drew a raspy breath. “And…” The logical conclusion sounds preposterously illogical. “… I am _your_ prisoner now, am I not?”

Valjean let out something akin to a desperate sigh. “You are not my prisoner, Javert,” he said. “Because this is not Toulon, and I… I am not Valjean.”

Sheer shock gave Javert the strength to sit bolt upright. He grabbed the other man’s collar and pulled him close. “Don’t lie,” he hissed, searching the familiar green eyes. “You are Valjean. I know you are. You must be! I have watched you too often and too long not to recognise you.”

“Javert…”

“Your stance, your eyes, your voice…” He gasped, running out of air too fast. “You cannot fool me!”

“Javert, let go!” Valjean pried the hand from his collar, only to put his own on Javert’s trembling shoulders. “Listen to me! You must calm down. You are not in your right mind.”

Javert writhed in Valjean’s hold, getting tangled in the sheets as he did. “Unhand me!”

“Not until you calm yourself!”

His gaze snapped onto the other man’s face. “Then admit that you are Valjean! Admit it! You _must_ be!” He stopped struggling, strength flowing rapidly from his limbs as exhaustion caught up with him. “You must be… I searched for you.” His eyes slid shut, head lolling back. “You must… I don’t think I could bear it if…”

Strong arms carefully wrapped around him, lowering him back into the softness of the bed.

“And what if I were Valjean?” the deep voice rumbled. “I would be a convict, nothing more.”

Eyes still closed, Javert rested his head against the arm cradling his shoulders. “No, an _honourable_ convict… All convicts are scum… but you, you saved a guard…” He let out an absentminded laugh that he didn’t really have the breath for. “… you never cease to amaze me, Valjean.”

Rough fingers smoothed the sodden linen of his shirt. “Nor you me,” Valjean whispered almost inaudibly.

Javert strained to hear Valjean’s voice, but his mind was heavy and his body ached, both demanding that he'd give into the void that lined the edge of his consciousness. He almost did, but when his senses numbed, he jolted one more time.

“Valjean?”

“I’m here,” a deep resonance replied. “Sleep now.”

Javert felt his mouth moving to speak, but his head already surrendered to the darkness. If he said anything, he wasn’t aware of it anymore.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said: experiment. Feel free to let me know if it ran out of the rut.


	7. In Two Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank to everyone who reviewed, especially on the last chapter. I'm very glad it worked the way I wanted it to, so that's an big encouragement for chapters to come!

Madeleine stared blearily out the kitchen window as he waited for the kettle on the stove to boil. Normally he was a tea-person, but after tonight, what he needed was a liberal quantity of strong coffee.

Sleeping in a chair never very restful, even if it was the most comfortable fauteuil in the house, but apparently waking up half a dozen times in as many hours was even less wholesome at his age. In the end, not sleeping in a bed hadn’t significantly contributed to the bags under his eyes. Not as much as Javert’s incessant nightmares had, anyway.

He might have gotten some true sleep himself if he had used the chloroform on Javert: a few sniffs of that substance would knock a man out for hours. Yet he hadn’t dared to. Chloroform suppressed general awareness in whoever inhaled it, but the inspector had already fainted twice since yesterday morning. How was he to know whether Javert’s lethargy was drug-induced or if had lost consciousness for a different reason? He hadn’t wanted to risk it.

Although for his own peace of mind, it might have been better if he had drugged Javert beyond the capability of speech. Then he would never have known how the mention of one word – one _name_ – effortlessly got through to Javert’s delirious mind and calmed him, no matter how confused the man was. Then he might have felt more like Madeleine now, and less like two minds fighting for dominance.

It was strange to say this of a sane man, but while essentially the same person, the personalities of Valjean and Madeleine were quite different. Valjean was emotional, positive by nature but bitter and disruptive at times. He yearned for things, had longings and dreams. Valjean _felt_. Madeleine did not. Madeleine thought, reasoned, prayed. Madeleine was a business man, respectable and sensible. A kind and caring man, but nevertheless distant.

For Javert’s sake, he had been Jean Valjean again tonight. Voluntarily. After so long of disavowing that side of him, it left his head reeling and the rest of him all the more desperate for that coffee.

He hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but changing his name had changed more than that alone. Père Madeleine had merely been an alias, but when Père Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine and all it entailed, Valjean’s emotional tendencies had to be suppressed lest they spoiled the careful façade that allowed Madeleine to lead a normal life.  

Later still he had become Monsieur le Maire and Valjean was sealed away entirely. He hadn’t minded that very much, in all honesty. Existence was calm and collected without Valjean’s emotional turmoil. But is was never far away and had shone through the seal a few times, most notably when arguing with Javert over the girl, Fantine: it was Madeleine’s authority that the inspector had submitted to, but it had been Valjean’s ferocity that had forced Javert to submit at all.

The kettle whistled. He removed it from the stove to make his sorely needed coffee at last.

Being Valjean, if only for a few instances, complicated matters. He had only meant to give in to that side of him long enough to sooth Javert back to sleep when that was all the man would respond to. Yet every time Javert had woken, confused and raving, it had been Valjean who sat beside him, whispering words of comfort and cooling his fevered skin with a wet cloth.

Not Madeleine. _Valjean._

Once the coffee was done filtering, he poured himself a cup and put the steaming brew to his lips. The sharp smell of black coffee cleared his mind a bit, but he did not like what the clarity showed him. Some things ought to be left forgotten, but after last night, the genie was out of the bottle.

In his delirium, Javert had believed himself to be back in Toulon. The prison riot of 1803, to be precise. That had not been the only riot during his nineteen years there, but Valjean – not Madeleine – remembered this one very distinctly, for the same reason Javert apparently still remembered it.

He took a swig from his cup, memories of that day surfacing as clearly as the kitchen around him. It had been a bad day. Seven guards had been killed, as well as ten prisoners. He had fought, too, but at seeing two prisoners pounding in on a young guard with the explicit intention of beating him to death, Valjean had interceded by ‘claiming’ the guard for himself. Jean le Cric was strong enough that his fellow prisoners respected his wishes, if grudgingly. He had never consummated his claim, though. Instead he had shoved the injured guard into a corner and steered the fights away. No one had dared to touch the young guard after that. Not during the riot, but neither in years that followed.

Nursing his coffee, he tried to recall the reason for laying that claim. He hadn’t lifted a finger to prevent the deaths of the other guards, yet he couldn’t stomach the prospect of seeing this one die. Why?

_Because he was special._

The answer sprouted from his mind like the naked Venus from her shell, wildly inappropriate but irrefutable. And undeniably true: ‘his’ guard had never been anything but just. He was not a sadist like some of the others, never ‘accidentally’ miscounted lashes to add a few more, and was never harsher on a prisoner than was justified. Later, when the boy had become a man, the prisoners had come to fear his hand on the whip. While most guards would tire after three or four lashes, his would be all equally painful down to the last.

Valjean might have taken pity on the boy, but later he truly admired the man that this boy had become. ‘His’ guard had never been kind, but in the inherently cruel bagne, his righteousness almost passed for kindness. Valjean had gazed at him often, sometimes for no other reason than to remind himself that there were still good men in the world.

Sometimes, however, he had watched him for other reasons, too, dreaming of consummating his claim after all…

He finished the remainder of his scalding coffee in one go, hoping to drown that thought and the next. This was exactly the reason why admitting Valjean complicated things! When Madeleine had first met Montreuil’s newly appointed chief of police, Javert’s history as a prison guard was only a general threat in Madeleine’s eyes, while Valjean…  Well, Valjean had remembered _everything_. As he did now.

“Keep yourself together,” Madeleine chided out loud as he poured himself another cup. “Javert may have been a source of comfort for you in the bagne, but that same stern justice could be your downfall. Do not make the mistake to believe he would forgive you now.”

The side of him that was Valjean bucked at this, raising a single, piercing question: _then why did he cry out for me?_

Madeleine had no answer to this. He finished his drink as fast as his tongue would allow. Putting the cup down, he rubbed his eyes tiredly. It was half past six in the morning, he had barely slept and his mind was playing tricks on him despite the coffee. He reached for the coffeepot to pour a third cup, but hesitated. More clarity was not going to make him feel better about all this. What he really needed was another catnap.

He went back to the bedroom, carrying a fresh jug of water and more firewood. Javert was still vast asleep when he came in. He lay on his side, his tall frame curled up under the covers and the pillow clutched between his forearms. Madeleine smiled faintly. Even caught in the throes of a raging fever, Javert hadn’t looked as vulnerable as this.

He filled the glass on the bedside table with water from the jug, expecting Javert to be thirsty when he woke. Then he raked the fire and fed it more logs before slumping in the fauteuil he had pulled up to the bed that evening. It took some effort to get comfortable, but he was tired enough to doze off fairly quickly.  

Drifting between waking and sleeping, Madeleine only opened one eye as he heard the front door open and shut. Madame Prost. Seven o’clock precisely, as usual. He closed his eye again and nodded off.

The second time he woke, however, he physically jumped at the loud clamour of the door bell echoing through the house. A glance at the bed said he wasn’t the only one to start so.

Javert shot upright, back straight and eyes wide in shock. “What in the— Monsieur le Maire?!” Madeleine first attributed the frantic reaction to the rude awakening at the noise of the bell, but then he noticed that Javert was staring at _him_ , a look of abject horror on his face.

He couldn’t help but stare back. For one terrifying second he was absolutely sure that Javert had recognised him in earnest this time. Downstairs, the shoes of Madame Prost patted over the tiles as she went to answer the door.

“I deeply apologise, monsieur!” Javert blurted suddenly. He was evidently confused and searching for words, but his bright eyes were clear and conscious. “Had I known I would not have dared to—“ A grating cough left him incapable of finishing his sentence.

“Peace, Javert,” said Madeleine, somehow managing to sound reassuring despite his heart pounding in his throat for fear. “There really is nothing to apologise for. You contracted pneumonia and that cannot be left untreated, as you were apparently intending to do.”

“I am not _that_ careless, monsieur,” said Javert indignantly. “And even if I was, I should not be here, in what is evidently your private room. No, if I was…” He sighed, correcting himself. “If I _am_ truly in such a poor condition, you should have sent me to the hospital. That would have been… _proper_.”

“Well, the doctor did recommend that you would be committed to the sisters’ care,” Madeleine replied.

Javert nodded miserably. He swayed slightly where he sat until he slowly pulled up his knees and hunched over, resting his face against his hand with his fingers pressing on his eyes. Madeleine wasn’t sure the inspector was even aware of it.

“But how could I send you there,” Madeleine allowed Valjean to add, “when you so desperately begged me not to?”

Javert raised his head a fraction, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to reply, but an almost shy knock on the door interrupted him.

“Messieurs?” said the voice of Madame Prost. “The doctor is here.”

Madeleine went to open the door. “Ah, good morning, Madame. Please tell the good doctor that I will call him in momentarily, will you?” The closed the door again and turned back to Javert, who still sat hunched over, head resting in his hands. 

Madeleine fetched an extra woollen blanket from the linen closet, which he folded a few times before placing it on the mattress behind Javert, setting the pillow against the crest it formed.

“Lay back,” he urged, gently pushing the inspector’s shoulder until his head and back rested against the propped up pillow.

“You should not concern yourself so,” said Javert, lowering his hands. “It is not right that you do this.”

“Inspector, you don’t have the strength to quarrel and I will not indulge you. I understand your reluctance to be my guest and receive care from my hand, but I value for your health more than your pride. I expect that you do, too.” The silence confirmed that this was so. “Now Dr Renoir is outside to follow up on yesterday’s visit. He is the best physician in this town—”

Javert’s eyes widened. “And the most expensive!” he exclaimed, pushing himself up in protest. “Monsieur, I appreciate you efforts, but I do not have your income!”

Madeleine put his hands in his sides. “I do not run a hotel, inspector. My guests do not pay for anything while under my roof.”

Javert paled so much that Madeleine feared he might faint again. “Monsieur le Maire, I do not know why you insist on taking this on yourself, but I assure you that it is not necessary!”

Madeleine made to argue, but Valjean was faster. He strode over to the bed and simply put his hand against Javert’s forehead. Beneath his fingers blazed the heat of a fever that had subsided a fraction but had not broken. He expected the inspector to move away from the touch, but to his surprise Javert remained motionless, closing his eyes at what to him must have been a cool sensation. That response alone spoke volumes.

“It _is_ necessary, inspector,” Madeleine said sternly, retracting his hand. “You are not at all well and I have invited you as my guest until you are. Please be so gracious as to accept my hospitality.”

Javert leaned back, silent and visibly cowed by… By what? Magnanimity? Simple human kindness? Or Madeleine’s resolute insistence that he should accept it? In truth, any and all of those would intimidate a man with Javert’s pride and character. Maybe that was why it struck Madeleine so when the inspector nodded demurely.

“Thank you,” Javert said softly. By all appearances, he actually meant it.

Dumbstruck, Madeleine only managed a nervous smile. “ _De rien,_ ” he muttered and looked away. “I—I should go and show the doctor in now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Madeleine/Valjean is not crazy, but dealing with two separate identities must feel a bit like having two personalities to him. Let's see how long he can keep them separated under these circumstances, shall we?


	8. Uncovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone starts getting annoyed: yes, the names Valjean and Madeleine increasingly intermingle here. That’s not inconsistency from my part, but a deliberate plotpoint. It will stop once Valjean/Madeleine gets his priorities straight :P.

Dr Renoir’s visit was brief. He had not been happy about Madeleine’s negligence concerning the chloroform and had seen fit to rectify that when Javert had raised complaints about being bled again. Waiting on the landing, Madeleine had overheard the argument as well as its abrupt end. He didn’t approve of forcing treatment on anyone, but really Javert was in no position to be stubborn. 

Once the doctor had left, summarising Javert’s condition as ‘severe but stable’, Madeleine had returned to his fauteuil by the bed. After the doctor’s enthusiasm with the chloroform, Javert laid perfectly still, hands folded on his chest and dead to the world. Unnerved, Valjean held his fingers beneath the inspector’s nostrils to make sure he wasn’t. He let out a sigh when warm air grazed his skin at steady intervals, telling him he was overreacting.

For the longest time he sat there, watching through Valjean’s eyes as Javert slept. Perhaps it was the ingrained paranoia of a convict, but he now noticed little things about Javert that he had never seen before. Like how the creases of his brow smoothed out when his expression relaxed; the fine crinkles in the corner of his eyes; a tiny patch in his right whisker where the beard was a little less dense; the definition of sinews and veins on the back of his hands; the way his long fingers curled around an invisible cudgel, even in rest; the broad expanse of his chest with its toned muscles and fine, dark hairs.

He noticed all this and more. Much more. Too much, really. He had forgotten that Valjean had always had an incredibly keen eye for detail, as well as a good memory and a vivid imagination to boot. And those skills were now conspiring to induce images he should _not_ be entertaining at present, if ever.

Madeleine banished Valjean’s unholy thoughts from his mind in the only way he could think of: he retrieved his Bible from his dresser drawer and opened it at random. He read various passages this way to ease his conscience and pass the time. Occasionally he would get up and walk about when his legs got stiff, but every time he returned to the fauteuil and the Holy Scriptures.

Javert slept for four hours straight on the dose the doctor had given him. He woke up around noon, groggy and still feverish. He greedily drank two glasses of water, but that didn’t wash away the effects of the chloroform and he fell asleep again shortly afterwards.

When the afternoon was already well underway, Madeleine’s criss-cross perusal of the Bible landed him in the Gospel of John. Reading the events of Peter denouncing Jesus no less than three times, the words carved traces in his mind, reminding him of truths he’d rather forget. Since the bishop’s interference he would never denounce the Lord, but he _had_ denounced his own identity, pretending for years he did not know this man called Jean Valjean. That was all good and well while it only concerned him, but now another man would come to harm because of it.

He pressed his knuckles against his lips. He had been so worried about Javert’s health that he hadn’t given a second thought to what the inspector had come to his office to tell in the first place: that there was an innocent man who had been dubbed ‘Jean Valjean’ and who would be put on trial for crimes he could not possibly have committed.

Could he stand by and let this happen? To right this wrong, Valjean would have to condemn himself and Monsieur Madeleine with him. Without him, his business would fail and the prosperity it brought to the town would fall to ruin. If he did nothing, Valjean would die with this man. Madeleine would be his only remaining identity and he could live out his years in peace. For what that life was worth after coming at such a terrible cost…

“You seem troubled, monsieur,” a hoarse voice drawled all of a sudden.

Madeleine started. He had been so engrossed in the Scriptures and the dilemma it had presented him with that he hadn’t noticed Javert waking. Now the inspector pushed himself up and leaned back against the headboard, regarding him with clouded but observant eyes. Even without its usual bright glint, Madeleine felt that gaze might peel him like an onion.

“It is nothing. Just… a reminder of something I need to deal with.” He licked his lips. “There is more water, if you want. Or would you like some tea or broth now?”

“Broth, I think,” the inspector said after a moment’s thought. “It must be a serious issue to deal with, if it alarms you so.”

“Alarms me? What makes you think that?”

Javert smiled thinly. “You don’t normally resemble a frightened horse, monsieur.” 

“I see. Well, it is nothing that concerns you, inspector,” said Madeleine briskly, getting up. “I will bring you that broth shortly.”

He didn’t rush his work in the kitchen, giving himself time to think while he stirred the _bouillon_ as it slowly warmed up. Had he been so easy to read? No, Javert extracted the truth from people for a living. Even in ill health, he would see right through whatever excuses Madeleine might make. It would not be easy to hide Valjean from him.

On the other hand, if the subject of Valjean was breaching the surface anyway, he might ask Javert for information on this man in Arras. Madeleine still fulminated at the idea of surrendering, but Valjean knew what the right course of action was. Perhaps Javert could tell him something that would make it easier to accept the fate it would lead him to.

When he felt ready to face Javert again, he poured some of the hot broth in a bowl and carried it back to the bedroom. “Let it cool a bit first,” he said, setting the steaming bowl on the bedside table.

Javert glanced at the bowl with a mixture of hunger and loathing. Madeleine was glad to see that the inspector had regained some measure of appetite, no matter how tenuous, but it didn’t escape his attention that the feverish glow of Javert’s skin had  
not diminished and that what had been a dry cough yesterday now sounded wretched. Painful, too, judging by the way Javert would wince when his lungs dredged up phlegm.

“According to Dr Renoir, another dose of chloroform may help to clear that up,” he suggested when Javert coughed again. “After you finish your meal, of course.”

The inspector gave him a pointed glare. “The only reason I ever took the first dose, was that your doctor had the handkerchief pressed to my face before I could prevent it.”

“Oh? It did you good, I believe. At least you slept well.”

“Good?” Javert scoffed. “Dangerous, rather. An overdose of that substance is lethal and quick to make.”

Madeleine blanched. “Are you sure? I cannot imagine a physician prescribing drugs that kill rather than heal.”

“All drugs can be lethal when abused. Chloroform is no exception. The rabble likes to use it on their victims and I have seen it go wrong several times. As for the reliability of physicians…” A coughing fit interrupted him. It didn’t last long, but it visibly drained his strength. “What I meant to say, monsieur,” he wheezed, “was that once you have seen prison doctors at work, you come to understand why many doctors double as morticians.” He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

Madeleine avoided Javert’s gaze, praying he hadn’t heard what he thought he had. “While we are on the subject of prison,” he said in what he hoped was a conversational tone, “I am reminded of the reason why you came to my office yesterday.”

“My dismissal?” Javert sounded almost hopeful.

“No, that fellow you— you mistook me for.” His cheeks flushed at the lie, but Javert looked away and didn’t notice.

“I do not know what to say, monsieur,” Javert said after some time. His fingers fretted with the edge of the covers and he sounded tense, eyes darting around but never meeting Madeleine’s.

“Do you still have the intention to go to Arras to confirm his identity?”

“No.”

Madeleine’s brows arched in surprise. “No? You do not wish to ascertain yourself it is him?”

“If it is not him, it is my duty to testify that under oath.” He stared out the window, an anxious frown darkening his features. “I should go, monsieur,” he said softly. “It is my duty. Nothing has ever withheld me from doing my duty before.”

“When you are well again, what is there to stop you?”

A wry, listless smile tugged at Javert’s lips. “The trial is tomorrow, monsieur. I should leave tonight if I wish to be on time to attend it.”

“Out of the question!” Valjean exclaimed before Madeleine could help it. He recomposed quickly. “I mean, surely you understand that you are too ill to travel.”

Javert sighed wearily. “I do, but at the same time I should do what must be done. It eats at me that I cannot.”

“I cannot help you there, inspector. However, I do know you must eat, too.” He picked up the bowl of broth and held it out. Despite its limited weight, Javert’s hands trembled when he took it from him. Fearing the still hot liquid would spill, Madeleine quickly leaned forward to stay the bowl and guide it to Javert’s lap. “I brought a spoon,” he added.

“With your permission, monsieur, I will forgo the basic table manners, seeing as there is no table to begin with.” He held the bowl tightly in both hands and carefully, with only a slight tremor, brought it to his lips to drink.

Madeleine kept an eye on the bowl, prepared to catch it should it slip from Javert’s grasp. Something about the inspector’s words sounded off, but he could not pinpoint it. Javert was very correct most of the time, but on occasion he was known to throw etiquette to the wind, as he did now.

That the broth was still steaming didn’t seem to bother Javert in the least. He drank the _bouillon_ down quite readily.

“It seems to be to your taste,” Madeleine remarked, watching for signs that Javert’s stomach did not agree.

“It’s not,” the inspector said candidly, “but even water tastes like ash and I do need some sustenance if I’m going to be travelling tonight.”

Madeleine scowled. “I thought we had established that you will not be going.”

“Oh?” After a few long seconds, realisation dawned and Javert nodded. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He coughed again and scraped his throat. “I never did believe in providence, but perhaps it is a grace that I will not be there to see Valjean convicted.”

Valjean shuffled nervously in his seat. “You are sure that he will be?” he asked, ignoring Madeleine’s instinct for tact.

Javert did not answer right away. The bowl he had been drinking from slowly sank back into his lap. He stared straight ahead yet looked at nothing. Concerned about this lapse of concentration, Valjean moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Javert, are you al right?”

“Absolutely,” Javert answered in a faraway voice. “Valjean broke his parole and is accused of committing at least two thefts since. Repeat offender.” His breath hitched and his eyes widened, suddenly snapping back to focus on Madeleine’s face. “Monsieur, tell me honestly: was I truly wrong about you?”

The complete and utter openness of the question struck Madeleine like a blow to the face. “I—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he stuttered.

“When I denounced you as Valjean, was I wrong?” His voice was clear now, his words quick and anxious. “Tell me!”

Valjean sat poised to flee, but Madeleine held his ground. The words were clear, but Javert’s eyes were not. They had lost their focus again and the inspector was noticeably fighting to see straight. He carefully removed the half-empty bowl of broth from Javert’s hands.

“You know you were wrong,” he said. “It is no fault of yours, though. A mere mistake.”

Javert shook his head. “No mistake, monsieur. I have known—“ He coughed, pressing a hand against the left side of his ribcage.

“Take it easy, inspector.”

“No, no. It doesn’t matter. I have known you to be an ex-convict from the moment I saw you, no matter what the prefecture said.”

Valjean felt his blood drain from his face, but Madeleine straightened his back in indignation. “Watch where you tread, inspector!”

To his surprise, Javert only laughed. “What else could you be? You have no papers, no past before coming to Montreuil. You drag your leg as if something heavy weighs it down…” He closed his eyes, catching his breath. “Monsieur, your whole stance screams ‘bagne’ to me. I should know. I have spent far too much time there not to recognise the signs. I don’t even need to see the scars of the shackles on your wrists and ankles to know they are there.” He tilted his head. “Or those on your neck…” Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out to Madeleine’s neatly tied cravat. His hand was intercepted before he could touch it.

“Inspector, that is quite enough!”

Javert stared at the hand that held his, but made not effort to retrieve it. “I apologise,” he said mechanically. “I merely wished to see if you had ever worn a double shackle there. Like Valjean has…”

Madeleine opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. There was no point in lying to someone who already saw the truth, although he sincerely doubted there was anything else Javert saw clearly at the moment. He sighed. He would not run. There was no where to run to, anymore.

“If you have known for so long, why did you never speak up before?”

Javert lay his head against the headboard, turning just enough to see Madeleine’s face. “I knew you were a convict,” he said wearily. “But I wasn’t sure if you were him… Until you lifted that cart and I was certain.”

“That happened two years ago!”

“I know…”

“And you still waited until now to denounce me?”

“…I couldn’t.” A shiver tore through him. “I couldn’t condemn you to death…”

Madeleine swallowed hard. “To death?” He knew he would face a lifetime in the bagne if he was caught after breaking parole, but while it was barely a life to speak of, it wasn’t death either.

“It matters little anymore if you are him or not,” Javert drawled softly. “Tomorrow Jean Valjean will be sentenced to death either way. I imagine he will be hanged.” He frowned, making a sound as if gagging. “But monsieur, the death penalty cannot be corrected…” His whole body quivered now.

Valjean gently put his hand to the side of the inspector’s neck. Even when he knew to expect it, the heat of Javert’s skin and the racing heartbeat pulsing against his palm startled him. It was worse than it had been this morning.

“The Law… the Law must do justice,” Javert gasped, completely ignoring the touch. “Condemning an innocent man is not justice, monsieur!”

“I know,” Valjean said, pressing his fingers against the tense muscles of Javert’s neck, slowly massaging them. “I understand, inspector. Do not worry about it.”

“No, monsieur, you do not understand!” Javert said vehemently. “The Court will condemn Valjean to death, whoever… whoever happens to be standing before them. I cannot let that happen, but I cannot prevent it, either…”

His eyes widened and he paled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Recognising the symptoms, Valjean gently brought his hand to the spot just beneath Javert’s sternum.

“Keep it down,” he urged, rubbing small, smooth circles and feeling the feverish heat of Javert’s body through the thin shirt. “Breathe deeply and think of something else.”

Javert obeyed, but his face contorted with pain at each breath and he could not but resort to a shallow panting. He gagged again.

“As deeply as you can without it hurting you,” Valjean whispered. “Come on.”

Javert struggled to obey, breathing as deep as he dared. His hand grabbed Valjean’s shoulder, seeking support as he fought to keep his stomach from convulsing.

“Think of something else,” Valjean reminded. He tried to think of anything that might give Javert comfort or pleasure. “Think of the thrill of the chase, of closing a case at long last,” he tried.

Javert did not respond, his gaze still focussed on something he saw on the patchwork covers.

Valjean continued the soothing movement, whispering more suggestions. “Think of a quiet patrol, a gentle summer breeze or the clear night sky.”

At the last word, Javert’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

“Ah. You enjoy watching the stars?”

The grip tightened and Javert shot an imploring gaze at him, the attempts to breathe evenly taking too much effort for him to speak.

“You must know the constellations then,” Valjean said. “Ursa Major, Ursa Minor…” Astronomy never interested him much, so he desperately searched his memory for any other constellation to name. “Ehm. Orion! Orion’s belt. And the North Star.”

“…Polaris,” Javert grated out between his teeth.

“Yes, of course, it’s called Polaris. Forgive me.”

But it worked. A hint of colour returned to Javert’s cheeks and while his brow was damp, the abdominal muscles under Madeleine’s hand stopped tensing up. The increasingly frequent shivers, however, did not.

“…thank you,” Javert whispered. The words were barely more than a breath. “I should leave now…”

“What?! No, you need to rest,” Madeleine said firmly, raising his hand to Javert’s burning forehead. “You are exhausted and your temperature is soaring again. You are not fit to leave the bed, let alone the house.”

“I have to…” He groaned, clutching his aching chest. But the tears welling up in his eyes were not caused by any physical pain. “The Court is wrong, monsieur. The Law… The Law is…”

Taking pity, Madeleine cupped the side of Javert’s face. “The Law must be just,” he finished for him. “Is that what worries you? That the Law would be wrong about this man?”

The heartbreaking look of terror in Javert’s eyes was answer enough.

“It won’t be, inspector,” Madeleine said solemnly, his free hand fumbling with the handkerchief and the small bottle on the nightstand. “I’m sure that when the Court pronounces its verdict tomorrow, it will be to condemn the right man.” He swallowed hard. “The Law will do justice, Javert. I promise you that.”

Javert’s hand grasped his. “Monsieur, please! Don’t…!”

He might have protested more severely, but he didn’t get the chance. Madeleine pressed the slightly moist patch of handkerchief to Javert’s nose and mouth. “Please forgive me,” he whispered as the man’s pale blue eyes slowly slipped shut.  

While it pained him to have to resort to this, Madeleine was grimly pleased to have spared Javert further anxiety. It was clear the stress was not doing the inspector any good and there was nothing be gained by it, either.

But Valjean tenderly cradled Javert’s limp body as he laid him down on the mattress, repeatedly checking if the unmeasured dose of chloroform hadn’t inadvertently killed the inspector. Even when he was sure Javert was sleeping safely, he did not let go.

He would do the right thing and go to Arras. That much was decided now. He would leave tonight, but only at the last possible moment. Madeleine would have to write a few letters to make arrangements for a fast horse and carriage, and to ensure that Javert would receive the medical attention he needed.

Valjean stroked a damp strand of grey hair from Javert’s temple. While Madeleine was convinced the inspector was strong enough to survive his predicament, Valjean knew very well that people died every day of fevers less intense than this. Could he leave now to face his execution, knowing that by doing so he might be condemning his redoubtable inspector to the same fate?

Yet if he stayed and the illness would claim Javert’s life anyway, he would have _two_ deaths on his hands and neither one his own…

It was Madeleine who eventually got up from the bed to kneel on the hardwood floor, folding his hands in prayer. If it was God’s will that Jean Valjean would be sentenced to death tomorrow, then the very least he could do was to make his amends with the Lord.

He prayed diligently, as Madeleine was wont to. But before long Valjean turned to the bed, reverently took Javert’s still hand in his, and prayed to God that He might have mercy on them both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I really want to hit Valjean over that self-sacrificial little head of his and whack some sense into him. And I will... Next chapter cranks up the heat and the rating of this fic!


	9. Don't Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More experimenting. Seriously, I’ve been kink-shaming myself all the way through this chapter. Talk about guilty pleasures ;P
> 
> Rating on safe side for now, but I'll need that 'E' for later chapters, anyway.

The verdict was pronounced with a single word and a thunderous bang of the judge’s gavel: _Guilty!_

The sound boomed in Javert’s ears, his heart skipping a beat in shock. This couldn’t be happening!

But it was. The Court had two statements that this man before them was Jean Valjean. Two separate pieces of evidence, by law enough to convict. One statement had been Valjean’s own. The other was a letter of a well-respected police officer. _His_ letter…

He shot to his feet to protest, but a court guard shoved him back in his seat, telling him he was to remain there until the execution was over. Javert tried to appeal to the Court. He yelled at them that he wanted to revoke his statement. The judge ignored him, making a gesture at a shadow in the corner of the courtroom instead. 

At the signal of the judge, a big man in a black hood stepped up with a noose in hand. He went up to the stand and slipped the thick rope over Valjean’s head. Javert expected Valjean to resist, but he didn’t. To his wordless dread, Valjean underwent his verdict with the complete resignation and patience of Monsieur Madeleine.

Javert shouted, leaping forward. The court guard grabbed him and pushed him back again. Behind the guard, the executioner pulled the noose tightly around Valjean’s neck. Javert tried to get away from the now two guards that held him back, but when he almost managed to break free, a third man joined in and he could no longer move.

 _Fight it, damn it!_ he wanted to yell at Valjean. _You can’t just stand there! Fight it!_

Valjean looked up, his green eyes sad and accusing. _I never truly harmed anyone,_ they said. _Yet you brought me to this,_ they said. _Why?_

The executioner tied Valjean’s hands behind his back.

Javert stared at him, eyes wide in horror. _They said I was crazy!_ he shouted wordlessly. _They believed you, not me! Why did you have to prove them wrong?!_

 _Because_ , Valjean’s eyes said, _I want to do what is right, just like you do._

Javert felt the leather stock around his neck tighten as if it were a noose of his own. He gripped the banister before him to keep standing. _God, this can’t be! I never wanted this!_

 _But you did it_.

“No!”

The soft ‘clack’ of the executioner’s handle was instantly followed by the louder ‘thud’ of the trapdoor giving way. Javert cried out as Valjean fell into the hole, the rope pulling taut with a sickening jerk. The silence was absolute. Petrified, he stared at the body that swung to and thro from the gallows not six feet away. Nausea gathered in the pit of his stomach.

From the elevation in the centre of the courtroom, the judge pronounced loudly that justice was done.

Javert physically recoiled from the words. He raked his hands through his hair so hard it hurt. Yes, it was justice, it was what the Law demanded, but at the same time it was inexplicably wrong! What could not be anything but just should not feel so… so…!

He screamed, loud yet soundless. He screamed for frustration and for grief over a death he had brought about but had not sought. He screamed and it was all he heard, until a sharp blow to his stomach made him so sick that his throat clogged and his body bend double in pain. Unable to swallow down the bitterness of his terrible mistake, his stomach roiled viciously. It writhed once, twice, and then rejected all it contained in a series of violent convulsions.

The courtroom disappeared into darkness as he heaved time and time again. With every contraction of his abdomen, he saw Valjean’s lifeless body dangling before him, making him wretch anew. The terrifying, unprecedented contradiction of what was lawful and was right tore at his insides like a gale wind that shattered his wooden heart. The tender caresses gently smoothing his hair from his face did nothing to sooth that onslaught.

“I’m sorry,” a whisper close by echoed his own thoughts. “I didn’t mean to cause this. I didn’t think—”

The rest of the mumble was drowned out by the howling agony of another convulsion. Intense heat smothered his body, making sweat all over. Tears of guilt, regret and misery streaked down his face as sobs wrecked him between convulsions that wouldn’t stop. Even when there was nothing whatsoever to give up anymore, the nausea would still not subside. His whole body hurt more every time his muscles compulsively seized and his chest stung with the uneasy breathes he managed to draw in-between.

“Dear Lord, I’m truly sorry,” a voice whispered sadly as a wet towel wiped down his face, clearing his eyes and his mouth.  

“S-sorry…”

Only when Javert heard the croak of his own broken voice did he realise that the first apology had not been his. Confused, he lifted his head to see who was there with him.

“Oh, thank God!” the darkness sighed at his attempt. “I feared you might never come out of it.”

Javert couldn’t make out a face to go with the voice, although he knew who it should be. His shoulders hunched as his body made to heave again at the thought, but his exhausted muscles couldn’t work up the effort.

“That seems to be the worst of it,” the deep voice said. The clang of porcelain on porcelain, like a lid being dropped on a jar, rang in his ears. Then a cold hand cupped his neck and helped him lie back.

“You were right about the chloroform,” the voice continued to prattle in the dark. “I’m so sorry, Javert, really I am. I thought it would help you sleep when you fretted so, but then you were completely unresponsive for hours and...” The touch moved from his neck to his face. “Can you even hear me? Javert, please, wake up. Open your eyes.”

That voice was familiar, warming. Impossible.

“…ljean?” His eyelids were made of lead, but he forced his eyes open, fearing what he would find. He saw colours, but not shapes. Tensing up, he tried to sit. “…Valjean?”

“I’m right here,” Valjean’s voice replied while two strong hands, one on his chest and one on his forehead, held him down. “Please, do not move.”

Despite the endless ache in his body or the sharp knives behind his ribs, Javert could well cry for sheer relief. His hand found the one resting against his chest, his fingers wrapping around Valjean’s.

“You… How? I saw you…” _I saw you hanged._ He choked on the word.

“I have been here all this time.”

Javert frowned, immature memories of words fluttering through his head. He tried to grasp them, make then into something he could comprehend, but they eluded him. Only one kept coming back.

“Arras…”

A heavy sigh was followed by a thumb gently strumming his brow. “No, Javert. You cannot go to Arras.”

The words sank in. “…nor you,” he replied. He made to clench the fingers he held, but he couldn’t summon the strength to hold them as tightly as he wanted. “Promise,” he hissed. “Promise you won’t go…”

The silence lasted too long.

“Promise!” he gasped, fighting Valjean’s hold in vain.

“Shhh, be still,” Valjean hushed. “I already promised you that I would see that justice is done. And I will.”

“N-no!”

“Shhh.”

The touch left his face, returning shortly, all wet and icy. The sudden cold shot brilliant sparks of light in his mind, calling forth fragments of a conversation that painted a picture ending inevitably at the gallows. He clawed at where he thought Valjean was, but which was to him a large, whitish stain in his vision. His fingers tangled themselves in Valjean’s shirt when they felt the soft fabric.

“Don’t go!” he rasped frantically. “My letter… It was petty vengeance. You scorned me, insulted me. Over that girl…” He coughed, wincing at the stabs in his chest. He made to twist to his side but stopped, not wanting to let go of Valjean. A big hand not his own pressed firmly against his aching side, making the pain of clearing his lungs more bearable as he coughed forcefully.

“I should have known that was more than your pride could incur,” murmured Valjean dejectedly. “I did what I had to do, but I am sorry that you took this so hard. That was never my intention.”

Javert leaned into the comforting pressure; eyes squeezed shut as he waited for the knives to cease their cutting long enough to speak.

“…I never should’ve sent it,” he whispered.

“You only did your duty, Javert,” said Valjean. “I do not hold that against you. I never did.”

Javert whimpered softly when the coolness on his face lifted. Without it to focus on, the heat in his body was quickly becoming more than he could stand. Then fresh shards of ice touched his neck. He gasped, relishing the clarity that the ice brought as it glided gradually along his throat and down to his sternum. Only now did Valjean’s last words truly register.

“You should have dismissed me…” he grunted.

“That would have been unjust, to speak in your terms. And it would not have solved anything.”

Javert tried to see the man’s face. It was hard, but he could make out those green eyes. “…you imbecile,” he growled. “Dismiss me and I’m no longer duty-bound to tell the Court they have the wrong man.” His hand, knuckles already white, dug deeper into Valjean’s shirt. “You’d be free…”

Valjean seemed to smile, but his eyes did not. The same sadness they had held in the courtroom now came over them. “I would be free from the Law,” he said, “but not from my own conscience. I cannot let a good man die because of my life’s choices.”

“What? No! You can’t—! The Court will—!” His tongue stumbled on his attempt to say everything at once. “I was wrong!” He struggled to sit up despite Valjean’s protestations that he shouldn’t. The room reeled. He held onto Valjean’s shoulders to steady himself, his head coming to rest against the man’s chest when the world continued to spin even with his eyes closed.

“Don’t go,” he muttered into the folds of the disordered shirt. “Don’t die… God, Valjean, I’m so sorry…”

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and held him. Javert started a little. Only his mother had embraced him so when he was young, but he had never let anyone come close enough since. Until now. The pure and simple comfort that Valjean’s arms gave him was more than he felt he was entitled to. He should pull away, but he could only bury himself deeper, muttering ever more apologies.

A small, gentle touch pressed against his hair. “Please, Javert, not a word,” Valjean implored. “This is the fever speaking, not you.”

Javert lacked the strength to respond. It was all he could do to hold on to Valjean. Hold on and _not let go_. His hands cramped, his whole body ached, but he would not let go. The red-hot molasses in his head made it too hard to think. He had no reasons, only the rock hard conviction that if he let go of Valjean, all would be lost.

Time was meaningless; the passage of it a farce to him. Eventually, with the covers having pooled around his waist, Javert shivered.

“Cold?” Valjean asked kindly. “You must be. This shirt is soaked. I will fetch you a clean one.”

The moment Valjean’s arms broke the embrace, Javert gripped him tighter. “No, stay,” he demanded, weak yet insistent to never release him.

“It’s only a few steps to the closet. Nothing more. I’m not leaving the room,” Valjean’s deep voice assured.

When Valjean slowly rose, Javert clutched at him, but he could not hang on. With a tiny gasp, his grip faltered and his hands fell forlornly in his lap. He wanted to rise, too, but his head spinning too much to even try and look up.

For a long, blurred string of furious heartbeats, his world was empty. Then mattress moved where a weight depressed it. Javert’s head snapped up, searching the shifting room with eyes that refused to focus.

“See? I’m right h— oh!”

Valjean’s kind voice broke off in favour of a sorrowful gaze and a coarse, hesitant thumb that wiped away the hot tear falling down Javert’s burning cheek. Javert closed his eyes, finding solace in the cool touch.

“This can’t go on much longer,” Valjean muttered, his concerned tones edging on fear. “That fever must be broken before it breaks you. Come, lie down.”

Too tired to even consider protest, Javert allowed himself to be eased back on the pillow. The blankets still lay no further than his hips, but that did not bother him. He was too hot by far and would rather loose all covers altogether. It was a grace when Valjean began to undo the handful of shirt buttons and opened the sodden shirt to expose Javert’s torso completely. Javert savoured the chill this brought to his heated skin, a cool breeze that was the only relief from the scorching southern sun that blazed high overhead.

He did not know how long he had laid there on the ground, naked down to the waist and his hips and legs bound with rope. His lower body was tethered to the wrought iron hoops that were used to chain the prisoners to. His arms were still free, for some reason, yet he could not get up and untie himself. He had tried. He couldn’t remember when, but he had.

It was strangely silent in the courtyard. Normally prisoners were at work at this time of day. There should be guards around, too, yet he was alone. Or was he? Beside his head was a dark blotch, like a shadow. It caught his attention, because it fell towards the sun rather than away from it. He craned his head to see what cast it.

The moment Javert spotted the figure standing behind him, the man began to move, stepping up to his side to look at him. Despite the glaring light, Javert recognised him instantly. At the sight of the broad, bearded convict, he began to get a fair idea of what was going to happen. He swallowed hard in anticipation.

 _You always wondered why I never took what I claimed,_ Valjean stated without opening his mouth. _The reason is simple: you would never give me what I want in public, and privacy is hard to come by in prison._ He looked around the deserted courtyard. _So I sent everyone away_.

Javert baulked. A convict taking over prison? “How?”

 _The riot_ , said Valjean casually. _Now I finally get to do this, I don’t want to be interrupted._ He pulled off his dirty, red shirt. _There. No uniform, no prison garb. You’re not better than me now, inspector._ He put his feet on either side of Javert’s hips and crouched down, hovering only inches over Javert’s body.

“Are you going to…?”

Valjean smirked fiendishly behind his unkempt beard. That expression had scared guards and convicts alike, but it failed to terrorize Javert as much as it should. The expectation of what was to come was too enticing and Javert felt his chapped lips part slightly, his breath hot as he exhaled. He wasn’t sure if what he felt was true anticipation or badly disguised fear. The two lay too close together to be distinguished.

He studied the man’s features intently, but instantly froze when Valjean leaned over him and grabbed his neck on both sides, effectively locking Javert’s head in the enormous, ice-cold hands. Javert shivered for the sudden cold, for surprise and for something he didn’t dare name yet.

He must have been lying in the sun for too long, Javert though, because every one of Valjean’s touches was equally frigid. The man planted long, wet kisses all over his face, each one colder than the last. Javert shuddered again, drawing short, hitching breaths as the kisses travelled down his throat and to his chest. He felt he should fight it, but whether fighting was pointless or whether he didn’t want to, he couldn’t make himself resist.

Valjean’s frosty touch explored the plains of his chest in slow, languid strokes. Every time the touch grazes his nipples, Javert bucked slightly, moaning softly despite himself.

“This feels good, then?” Valjean asked, strangely considerate for a man seeking to pleasure only himself. Yet Javert let out another low moan, groping to find those hands and guide them back. But Valjean pulled away sharply, moving instead to the side of Javert’s torso, stroking his muscular abdomen.

He should not like this so much. He should not be quivering at the touch of a convict, but he was. He sought to grab hold of Valjean’s body, but his hands were pushed away time and again. Cold fingers trailed the edge of his breeches, teasing him until his tethered hips bucked in earnest. He wanted them to undo the ropes and explore the rest of his body, too, but words failed him. The searing heat of the sun had infiltrated his body and pushed his blood to boiling point along ago. His burning flesh and pounding heart needed but little encouragement to succumb to a new, very different fire that had burst to flames in his groin. He groaned in sweet agony as both fires mingled and soared through every inch of his being.

Panting in the heat that encompassed him inside and out, Javert reached out on instinct to touch Valjean’s broad body. The man’s muscles were strong and lean, rippling beneath thoroughly tanned skin. His scars stood out on his wrists and around his neck. His back would be full of welts, too, made by the lashes Javert had given him with his own hand. He longed to touch them, kiss them, but the convict had other plans.

“I can’t have you flailing about like this,” said Valjean, his voice painfully loud. He pinned Javert’s hands off to either side, leaning his knees on Javert’s elbows to keep him from moving. Then the convict pulled a rope from somewhere behind him and fastened it around Javert’s wrist. A hoop stuck out of the ground where none had been before, and he tied the rope to this in a secure knot. Letting go, Javert pulled at the restraint, but it would not budge. Satisfied, Valjean tied Javert’s other hand in a similar fashion to another inexplicably appeared hoop. Then he sat back on his haunches, admiring his handiwork.

Javert strained against the ropes that now bound his arms as well as his legs. He could lift his back off the ground, but barely. Otherwise, he was rendered entirely at Valjean’s mercy. His groin flared anew, pushing the increasing heat to further heights.

“W-what are you…?” Short of breath as he was, he could not finish his sentence.

A freezing cold hand caressed his face with leisurely strokes. _You know what I’m going to_ do, Valjean replied. He settled on his knees, straddling Javert’s hips. Javert groaned at the touch, but it was not nearly enough. He wanted to touch Valjean in return or at least touch himself. But he could not. He could not even spread his legs at the promise of what this convict – _his_ convict – wanted to do to him.

He fought the restraints for the sheer pleasure of feeling them. Losing control was one of his deepest fears, but while Valjean was a very dangerous man, Javert couldn’t help but trust him: the honourable convict, who obeyed orders; who would fight other prisoners, but never the guards; who had escaped several times yet had used violence only once. To be submitted to this man’s most base desire…

He let out a small cry when Valjean undid the ropes around his hips. “Nghnno…”

“I will not do anything you do not want me to,” Valjean’s husky, deep voice said. He had sounded civil there, almost as if he were another man. A distinguished man. Javert pushed the thought away. There was Madeleine, he knew, but Madeleine didn’t belong in Toulon. To submit to the orders of the magistrate was one thing, but to submit to such raw physical power was another. Right now, he wanted to feel that brute strength.

Javert licked his lips as Valjean rose again, leaving him without the intense pressure he longed to feel against his hips. He whimpered in disappointment, earning him a chuckle from the convict. 

_Had I known you were this eager, I would have dragged you into my cell long ago._

Javert tried to pull up his legs and spread them, but the renewed freedom of movement was blessedly cut short as Valjean grabbed each leg just above the knee and pushed them onto the ground. 

“Will you stop thrashing, or should I tie your ankles, too?” Valjean growled.

The idea being tied down by his wrist and ankles - like the convicts he guarded - was too much. He struggled intentionally, yearning for the repercussions it would have. As he had hoped, Valjean wasted no time to follow up on his threat and bind him. Now, with Valjean crouching between his spread legs and the terrible, intense heat coursing through his body, Javert lay perfectly still but for the short, rapid motions of his chest. Completely and utterly subdued.

Valjean leaned over him again, almost but not quite touching him. Javert moaned longingly, knowing he would have no choice but to obey the convict. That was not as difficult as it sounded. As long as Javert could remember, his body would answer Valjean’s every call, no matter how few and far between those had been.

A sloppy, wet kiss pressed against his mouth. He reciprocated greedily, almost literally drinking from Valjean’s cold, moist lips. His hands jerked the restraints when he instinctively wanted to hold on to the man.

 _So hot, so eager,_ Valjean cooed with satisfaction. _I wonder if the rest of you is as hot and eager, too._

Javert could not tell how he had lost his breeches, but he was now naked beneath Valjean, his engorged cock throbbing in time with his desperately racing pulse. His heart felt like it would burst from his chest and he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Please…” he pleaded. “It hurts…”

“I know,” said Valjean, but from the devious quirk on his face, he was in no hurry to release his guard in any way. Then he smiled. _Do you want me?_

“Yes…”

_Badly?_

“Yesss…”

Valjean brought his hand down, cupping Javert’s quivering member this way and that, but never quite touching it. Javert bit his lip until it bled, his mind lost in the heat of anticipation and desire. Valjean only smirked at the sight and kissed him wetly, tentatively brushing his fingers along Javert’s length.

“Are you sure you want this?” the convict whispered in his ear.

Absolutely frantic to be touched, Javert arched violently against the restraints. “Yes! God, yes!”

Suddenly Valjean’s hand pressed down hard on his burning groin. It was enough. Javert let out a strangled cry, and the sun inside him exploded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have stared at this so long, I don't know what to think anymore. The persistent sense of shame isn't helping my judgement, either. Comments appreciated (crawls under the bed and hides). 
> 
> For those who care to know: the story isn't over yet, but updates will be slow in the next few weeks. I did not abandon it, I'm just on holiday. Laptop is coming, too, so expect new chapters when I get back (or find a Wifi-spot en route).


	10. Making Arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, managed one more update before I leave :)
> 
> (now with the most blatant typo's corrected)

Valjean kept his mind carefully blank while he waited for Javert’s ragged breathing to slow down. His head tried to put a name to what had just happened, but he ignored its efforts as best he could. He also ignored the feel of the clammy drawers beneath his motionless hand and the heat of the rigid flesh still throbbing against his fingertips. And he quite vehemently ignored the increased tightness of his own trousers that was the result of all this.

For the longest time, he simply sat there. When he finally did move, it felt like it wasn’t him who operated his left hand as it searched for the sodden cloth in the wash basin, picked it up and held it to Javert’s parted lips without wringing it first. Numerous droplets ran down the inspector’s chin and neck and onto the pillow. The water didn’t help to stem the bleeding of Javert’s split lip, but that wasn’t its purpose: at the moist touch, Javert would suck water from the cloth as instinct overruled unconsciousness. It was the only way Valjean could get him to drink as least a little.

That same waking unconsciousness was also responsible for this unexpected event; of that Valjean was certain. It was impossible and unthinkable that Javert, had he been truly awake, would have begged to be touched that way, let alone consented to Valjean doing so. More likely it had been nothing but a physical response to an incoherent fever dream, plain and simple. His own physical reaction to Javert’s excitement was merely a mirrored response, too, much like seeing someone yawn makes you mirror the act. It had to be. He couldn’t afford for it to mean anything more.

Although a part of him wasn’t adverse to the idea of there being more to it. Back in Toulon, he hadn’t laid a claim on that young guard out of pity alone. That he had never sought the opportunity to act on that claim didn’t mean he wouldn’t have liked to. If doing virtually nothing at all could elicit that stifled moan, Valjean couldn’t help but wonder how Javert would have reacted if he’d done more then.

“He would have reacted with ten lashes, you idiot,” Madeleine growled, reinstating sensibility.

Tonight was no basis of comparison for anything. Javert was obviously completely incapable of determining what he did or did not want. Helping him find release was nothing but a calculated attempt to siphon off some of the excess heat of his fevered body, similar to applying the cold cloths. In the same line of reasoning, using his belt and cravat to tie Javert’s wrists to the bed frame was not the enactment of a long-forgotten sexual fantasy, but a matter of precaution to keep both of them from getting hurt. That he had taken two more cravats from his dresser to do the same to the inspector’s ankles was only to keep the man calm. Nothing more. Truly and honestly nothing more…

Madeleine retrieved the slightly bloody, still-wet cloth from Javert’s lips and thoroughly wiped his hands on it before tossing it beside the bed, atop two more towels that formed the start of a new heap of laundry. There would be more to follow soon: a sweat-soaked shirt and a pair of drawers, to begin with.

A knock at the door made him look up.

“Monsieur le Maire?” said the voice of his housekeeper.

“One moment, madame.” He quickly pulled the covers over Javert’s prone body. While Madame Prost was a sturdy woman who could probably keep from screaming at the sight of a man’s bare skin, but there was such a thing as propriety. That and he really did _not_ want to have to explain the why or how of Javert’s restraints.

That reminded him of his missing cravat. He double-checked if the now exposed collar of his shirt was done up high enough to avoid a view of the marred skin of his neck. Only when he was absolutely sure of this, did he open the door for Madame Prost.

“Yes, madame?” he said with the best professional smile he could muster under the circumstances.

“Monsieur, it is eight o’clock now. I came to ask if I could be of any further help before I leave.”

Madeleine frowned. “Really? Is it that late already? I hadn’t realised.”

“I didn’t think so, monsieur,” the woman said with a motherly smile. “I have taken the liberty of preparing a platter of cold meat, cheese, bread and some dried fruit. It is waiting for you on the kitchen table whenever you feel inclined to eat.”

“Thank you, that is very thoughtful,” he said bashfully. He faintly registered that she had called him for dinner earlier, but he had not responded beyond telling her now was not the time. “I apologise if I have been rude to you tonight.”

“No matter, monsieur. Worry and pain kills politeness. I understand that very well.” She nodded at the bed. “How is he now?”

That one question brought the full scale of the situation crashing down on Valjean. He turned back to the bed, fighting to keep the rising panic under control. Sitting down on the side of the bed, Valjean conceded to Madeleine’s composure before answering.

“He really is desperately ill. I feared the dose of chloroform I gave him had left him comatose, but he did wake eventually, if briefly. But he regurgitated what little he did eat, I’m afraid.”

“That was to be expected,” said Madame Prost as she followed him into the room and retrieved the porcelain chamber pot from under the bed. “I will see to this, and I will collect the dirty laundry in a minute.”

But Madeleine wasn’t listening. With measured care, he held the back of his hand against the side of Javert’s neck. Whatever pent up anxiety the inspector had released under Valjean’s touch, it had done nothing to lower his fever. On the contrary.

“Cold compresses are no longer sufficient,” he said anxiously. “Madame, would you be so good to call on Dr Renoir immediately. Something must be done quickly, and I am completely at a loss as to what.”

He expected her to ask for money for a cab and leave, but she did neither. Instead, she approached the bed and regarded Javert with a thoughtful look on her face.

“If you permit me, monsieur,” she said slowly, “I might have a suggestion that might do more good than calling the doctor.”

Madeleine glanced at her. “Oh?”

The woman’s face was stern and reserved. “Do you object to considering an English method?”

“Madame, at the moment I am quite willing to consider anything if it might help. I think I can speak for the inspector, too.”

She inhaled nervously. “Forgive me if I am out of line, monsieur, but I did not dare bring this up before. You know I’m French by marriage only? Well, when I was a young girl in England, I worked as a nurse for some time. Now most French physicians are not keen on foreign methods of medicine, but when we had patients suffering a fever that was too high, we would bathe them in water that was colder than they were. Not too cold, as that might cause a cardiac arrest, but cold enough to lower their body temperature.”

“I see.” Valjean chewed his lip in thought. What she described resembled the buckets of cold water that the guards would pour on convicts when the heat of the Toulon sun got too much. The sudden shock was always met with curses, but the cold was invariably a relief. He could see how that might help bring down a fever, too. “Was it successful?”

“Yes, monsieur. Sometimes it would have to be repeated, but I dare say we have had several patients who would have died otherwise.”

Madeleine pondered consulting Dr Renoir, but after seeing the dire effects of the chloroform that the doctor had insisted on, he couldn’t help but recall Javert’s remark about the side occupation of some doctors.

“If we do nothing, there is a significant chance that he will not survive this,” Madeleine muttered under his breath. Then he looked at Madame Prost. “I will carry the tub up here,” he said. “I know it is past your hours, but I would be extremely grateful for your help.”

She shrugged. “A widow has no one waiting for her back home, monsieur. I can stay as long as you need me to.”

“Thank you. Then would you please see to it that the tub is filled as you see fit?”

She curtsied. “Oui, monsieur. I will start heating water immediately.”

Calling the mayor’s bath a ‘tub’ did not do it justice. Most tubs were just that: large wooden buckets that you could stand in to wash yourself. What Madeleine had in the tiny bathroom behind the kitchen, however, was an actual bath. It was made of copper and was long enough for a man to sit in with his legs stretched. Such a bath was a rare luxury; one Madeleine would not have indulged if it hadn’t been a gift from the workers of his factory upon his appointment to office. In truth he made little use of it. Due to its size, filling – and later emptying – the bath was a lengthy procedure that he only rarely dared to ask of his housekeeper. This time would have to be an exception.

While it was Madeleine who retrieved the tub from the bathroom, it was Valjean who had to lift it on his back and carry it up the stairs. The metal was heavy, but Jean le Cric had shouldered worse burdens than this in his time.

Manoeuvring the tub into the bedroom, his first idea was to set it by the hearth, so the fire would keep the water warm for longer. But on second thought, warmth wasn’t the issue and he did not think Javert would be able to walk the distance from the bed, either. Reconsidering his options, he then moved the tub to the side of the bed not taken up by his fauteuil.

He looked up when Javert groaned, features contorting under the influence of a dream that was evidently not nearly as appeasing as the last. Valjean stroked the inspector’s sweaty brow, whispering soothingly until he calmed somewhat.

Then Madame Prost came bustling in with a kettle full of water and he straightened up with a jerk, feeling caught. His housekeeper didn’t pay him any attention, as she was fully focussed on hanging the kettle over the fire in the hearth.

“I will need both fires here and in the kitchen to warm enough water as quickly as possible,” she said. Then she glanced at the bed. “Oh, Monsieur le Maire, do turn down those covers! He is far too hot already. Keeping him covered like this only makes it worse.” Not waiting for him to act, she quickly scooted over to the bedside and folded the covers back, down to Javert’s waist. The fact that the inspector’s shirt was open and his bare chest fully exposed did not faze her in the least.

Too late Madeleine remembered what he had done with his cravat and his belt. He lunged forward to grab the covers. “Madame, really, propriety dictates—“ He abruptly fell silent when he saw her scowl.

“One cannot provide medical care and observe the rules of propriety at the same time, monsieur. That was the first thing any nurse learns.”

He let go of the blankets again. “You make a valid point, madame,” he said. “I must admit I never knew you had been a nurse.”

“It was another life in another country, Monsieur le Maire. I speak little of it. However, I will not shun using that experience when the situation calls for it.” To Madeleine’s horror, she caught sight of the restraints. “Ah. A good call, I think, considering the inspector’s size and strength. Although you might want to change that belt for another cravat. The silk is kinder than the leather.”

Madeleine felt the blood rush to his face. Madame Prost dared a tiny smirk when she saw it.

“It is not an uncommon practice to tie down patients who are mad with pain or fever, monsieur. We used to do it for their safety as well as ours.” She bobbed a curtsey. “I will start filling the bath now.”

It took a few seconds for his mind to come together, but when she started down the stairs, he ran after her.

“Madame, a moment!”

“Monsieur?”

“I never knew of your medical skills, but I believe you may have been sent by Heaven.”

She went red. “Surely that is an exaggeration, Monsieur le Maire.”

“No, please hear me out. This afternoon I learned that a very urgent matter has risen, which requires my immediate and personal attention, and demands of me that I travel to Arras in the morning.”

Her face clouded. “You intent to leave? Under these circumstances?” She nodded up the stairs, at the bedroom door.

“It came up very suddenly and I wish I didn’t have to, but there truly is no choice for me. I absolutely must go.”

“When will you leave?”

“This morning, around 4 o’clock. I will arrange for my transport to be ready by then, but…” He ran the fingers of both hands roughly through his beard. “I must go, madame. I truly must, but I cannot leave the inspector alone, either.”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t think that wise, no. When will you be back?”

He drew breath to begin but faltered. He didn’t have the heart to tell the truth. “I do not know, madame,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps in a day, perhaps longer. But I will not ask that much of you. Only that you stay here in the hours between my departure and Dr Renoir’s arrival. I will leave instructions for the doctor to see that the inspector is transported to the hospital as soon as possible. I will reward you greatly if you would do this. It means very much to me to know he is in good hands while I’m away.”

“Well,” Madame Prost said, squaring her shoulders. “I believe I am qualified enough to manage that. The inspector is a fierce man, but you care for him.” A tiny, worried smile appeared. “For you, Monsieur le Maire, I will do this.”

He felt an unexpected prickling of threatening tears. “I am forever in your debt, madame.”

“Let’s not be hasty, monsieur. The evening is not yet half over and the night will be long before you go. Now, I must draw that bath as you requested.”

As she left to go about her duty, so did Madeleine. He had arrangements to make before he’d lose the heart for them. He went to his study, sat down behind his desk and retrieved what he needed from the desk drawer to write two letters.

His most immediate concern – seeing Javert through until morning– was dealt with. For that, he was immensely grateful. Of course that situation could not last and having Javert committed to hospital was inevitable. Valjean sighed as he wrote instructions to that end for Dr Renoir. He wished he didn’t have to break his promise to Javert on this subject, but what choice did he have? If only that damn trial had been a few days later. Or better yet, not at all…

The second letter was to Scaufflaire, the man who rented out horses and carriages, to order the fastest horse, saddled or with a light carriage, to be ready at his door in the dead of night.

He included in both letters a considerable sum of money to cover the charges, as he did not expect that he would be able to settle these debts at a later point in time. The letter for the doctor he would give to Madame Prost to hand over. For the other he would need to find a gamin or a cab to deliver it and come back with a confirmation. Then his decision would be final. Once his transport arrived, there would be no turning back.

The knowledge of this glued him to his chair. Both sides of him were terribly conflicted. Madeleine did not want to give up his life or his work or abandon the people who depended on him, but while Valjean had been quick to make his decision to do the right thing, now his resolve was crumbling, too.

For too long, Madeleine had kept Valjean’s emotions and desires at bay. Tonight, feeling the quiver of his guard’s flesh as he made Javert come had shown Valjean how much he longed for the physical contact that Madeleine had denied him. He knew it was madness to seek such intimacy from Javert of all people, since neither the guard nor the inspector had ever known of Valjean’s admiration and would be disgusted or worse if he ever found out. Yet he could not forget how Javert had clung to him, begging him not to give himself up. Was it still the right thing to do if Javert apparently needed him so?

Madeleine stared at the little _tricolor_ and scoffed loudly. Javert did not _need_ anyone, and certainly not an ex-con. Once the inspector had regained his sanity, all he had said or done in his delirious state would be forgotten. As it should be. It was wrong to draw conclusions from the words of someone so obviously out of his mind.

No, from Madeleine’s rational point of view, the situation was simple. There were three options, all with the same outcome:

If he gave himself up and was condemned to death, Valjean died.

If that other man was condemned under his name, Valjean was dead to everyone but Javert, who would no doubt strive to correct that mistake as soon as possible.

And if Javert should fail to do that - possibly because that fever had killed him first, he thought miserably - Valjean was dead to the world, but would ultimately still have to answer to God for his cowardly actions.

In short, Valjean’s death was inevitable. The best he could hope for was to redeem his soul by going to Arras and saving an innocent life. So he would leave in the morning, as planned. No second thoughts. No looking back.

With the stiff motions of a clockwork man, he folded both letters, dropped a blob of seal wax on each and pressed his seal into it. One letter he put on the edge of his desk. With the other in hand, he got up, got into his overcoat and went outside to find a messenger. A passing cab driver was willing to deliver the letter to Scaufflaire and come back with a reply in exchange for a golden Louis. The man would probably have done it for less, but it was the first coin Madeleine could find in his pocket.

When he came back into the vestibule, feeling too empty to stamp the snow from his shoes, Madame Prost just came down the stairs with two wet but empty buckets. “Monsieur?”

“There is a letter for Dr Renoir on my desk in the study, madame,” he said evenly. “Please give it to him when he arrives in the morning.”

“I will, monsieur, but I think you should see to the inspector now. He keeps asking for ‘Jean’, I think. I can only surmise that he means you.”

The emptiness was instantly replaced with a sharp pang of concern and a silent gratitude that Javert was presently not eloquent enough to pronounce Valjean’s name properly. The glint in his housekeeper’s eye told him that she believed Javert had called him by his given name and read too much into that, but Madeleine couldn’t make himself care. Valjean, for his part, wasted no time to hurry up the stairs.

He found Javert tossing and writhing on the bed, getting caught up in the sheets despite the restraints. The leather belt cut into Javert’s skin, leaving angry, red marks across his wrist. Madeleine quickly retrieved a fourth cravat from his dresser to replace it with. Javert initially fought him, but ceased instantly when Valjean grasped his hand and squeezed it gently.

“There now, easy. I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Valjean muttered as he let go long enough to tie a sturdy knot in the silk and remove the belt.

Javert turned his head this way and that. “…ljean?”

The soft whimper was childishly hopeful and so very vulnerable that Valjean feared his heart would break. “I’m here,” he answered feebly, feeling guilty that he would be taking that little bit of consolation away with him when he left. He cupped his hand to Javert’s face to confirm his presence. At the touch, he prayed to God that Madame Prost was right and that the bath would help to break this terrible fever.

When Madame Prost came in the room again, panting and red in the face with the effort of carrying two big buckets full of water, Madeleine got up and shrugged out of the overcoat he was still wearing.

“Allow me, madame.” He took the buckets from her and tipped them both into the tub. She extended her hands to take the empty pales back, but he shook his head. “You look after the water on the fire. I will fetch the cold water. Just tell me how much more you need.”

More than an hour passed before Madame Prost declared that the tub was full enough. She pushed up her sleeve and tested the water with her elbow.

“Yes, that should be just about right.”

Madeleine dipped his hand in, too. “It does not feel that cold,” he remarked.

Madame Prost made a sound that might have been a scoff if she was that kind of person. “To you it feels pleasant, monsieur. To the inspector, it will be colder than he would like.”

“Yes, of course.” He shook he droplets from his hand. “Will seating him in the bath be sufficient?”

Her expression darkened. “I assume you do not wish me to help you bathe him, then?”

“If I can do this alone, then… I do not mean to offend you, madame, but I…”

“I understand, monsieur,” she said, without clarifying what it was she understood. She handed him the copper ladle that went with the bath. “You should use this to pour water over the parts of his body that are not submerged. Not too often, as his temperature must be allowed to drop gradually. Don’t leave him in too long, either. If he gets too cold, the fever will only spike even higher in response.”

“I will be mindful of that.”

“Well then, monsieur. Should you have need of me, I will be nearby.”

“You are staying?”

“It is only six hours until you must leave. With your permission, I would like to make myself comfortable in the kitchen.”

He smiled without feeling it. “No, madame. Please use the guestroom instead. I’m afraid the bed is not ready, but—“

“It is monsieur.” Unlike him, her smile was genuine if tense. “I prepared it for you yesterday, but I believe you preferred to sleep here instead. You intend to do so tonight?”

“I do not expect to be getting much sleep at all. Please, make yourself at home.”

She nodded and curtsied. “Good night, Monsieur le Maire.” She retreated with gentle steps, closing the door carefully behind her.

As her footsteps faded down the hallway, he sighed wearily. He had six hours until he had to leave. Whether it was still six hours or only six hours, he did not know. What he did know was that perhaps these few hours sufficed to help Valjean’s guard and Madeleine’s inspector, and to say goodbye to the one constant in his life before he was forced to abandon it.

Unified in this purpose, the line between the part of him that was Madeleine and the part that was Valjean began to blur. He regretted everything and nothing about this evening at the same time. It was less than he had wanted but more than he had ever dared to hope for.

He slowly got out of his waistcoat and began to roll up his shirt sleeves. He was to be condemned to death, but that would not be until tomorrow. Feeling a kind of peace he had never felt before, he sat down on the edge of the bed and gently roused Javert.

 


	11. Wash My Sins Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Now with artwork!](http://chrissy-24601.tumblr.com/post/59138019582/illustration-for-surrender) (Image is 'not safe for work', so this will lead you to the link on my tumblr)

Images drifted in and out of his vision before he could make sense of them. Sometimes they seemed familiar, until whatever he saw twisted beyond all recognition. Memories and illusions melted into one another, his own thoughts alien to him. He was falling. Falling deeper and deeper, into darkness. Into Hell.

His hands and feet were bound as he lay spread-eagled on a stone altar. Blades plunged into his chest time and time again, making him cry in pain and shock. The pain had no rhythm to get used to, to make it bearable. Or it had to be the insane rhythm of his heartbeat. He heard his own blood rush through his veins. Even shackled and chained he felt he was losing grip.

Then a massive hand touched his face and he knew all of it was only a dream. The blades continued to stab into him, the pain persisted and he was still bound, but he was no longer scared. The restraints kept him safe. The green eyes told him so. And they also promised that the pain would stop. Now not, maybe not even soon, but eventually. It was sufficient. He would wait; wait until the pain subsided.

He was still waiting when the darkness around him suddenly became more tangible and he heard the noise of cascading water nearby. A river? There were rivers in Hell, he knew. He also heard voices, but they were too calm and too few to be the wails of lost souls. When he tried to make them out, the chains around his wrists and feet pulled him down, back into the darkness. He heard or saw nothing, yet he knew someone was close. He wanted to see, needed to see. He tried to pull his eyes open, but his body seemed to have forgotten how.

All of a sudden the restraints around his ankles were released. Literally losing his foothold was a shock, but before he could fall, something got hold of him. He held his breath as his skin was stripped all around his waist and then slowly peeled away from his hips and the flesh of his buttocks. It didn’t hurt as much as it should, feeling rather like having damp, sticky cloth grating down his legs rather than being skinned. He had to be bleeding, though, because he could sense a damp sheen all over his exposed body.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, shaking him. The extremely physical jolt rekindled his body’s memory of how to operate. Through the slits of burning eyelids that finally opened enough to see, he recognised the features of the face hovering over his.

“Wake up, Javert,” Valjean’s deep voice said. “Come on, it is time to wake up.”

Javert grunted an acknowledgement, his throat too dry to speak. He wanted to comply, but his head was full of cotton that simultaneously scorched and stung the inside of his skull like red-hot nails. But as Valjean urged him to wake, Javert felt his body responding off its own accord.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Valjean.

Eyes open at last, he tried to focus, but the world somersaulted without moving. The restraints around his wrists came away. First one, then the other. Javert groped for purchase to keep from falling into the turmoil around him.

Valjean steadied him. “You are safe,” the older man said. “This is the same room and the same bed as before. Now, do you think you can you sit up?”

Think? Sit up? The concepts were foreign, but his body seemed to remember. Feeling Valjean’s hand beneath his shoulder was enough stir his frame into action, although very ill-advised: he attempted to push himself up, only to fall back when the muscles of his abdomen cramped painfully. He let out a whimper as the room revolved again.

Again it was Valjean who steadied him. “I can’t take the pain away,” he said, “but I can try to clear your mind a bit. Let me help you.”

Through the haze that surrounded him, Javert nodded and held on to Valjean as his legs were pulled over the edge of what he hoped was a bed. Then his torso was tilted up until he sat. This only made the vertigo worse, and he tightened his hold on Valjean’s arm to stay upright.

“Now you will likely curse me for doing this, but it should make you feel better in the end.”

The words made little sense. Javert kept his eyes closed to concentrate on finding his balance, but he could feel Valjean manhandling him. More specifically his legs.

“...re you doing?”

Valjean didn’t stop. “This will feel cold,” he said. Immediately there was a splash and Javert gasped sharply as cool water sucked his feet in up to his calves. In reflex, he wanted to pull his legs up, but a strong pressure on his thighs prevented it.

“I know, I know, but it will do you good. Don’t fight it.”

Javert shuddered and moaned, but finally complied. The water was cold; the cold itself invasive, sharp… and yet a soothing relief from the heat that had taken hold of him. As he got used to the sensation, he gave in to it.

“Is that bearable, or is it too cold?” Valjean asked, beginning to pull the sweat-soaked shirt from Javert’s shoulders.

Javert noticed how being divested of the shirt felt like being flayed alive, although this, too, hurt too little. Forcing his eyes open, the somewhat blurry sight of his bare legs, completely intact, confirmed that whatever had been pulled along the length of them, it had not been his skin.

He also spotted the presence of a large, orange-brown shape that he couldn’t name, even with great effort.

“Valjean?” he managed. “What’re you planning…?”

“Is the water too cold?” Valjean asked again.

Javert frowned in contemplation. “…no,” he concluded at last, not entirely sure what the question was. All he knew was that the cold around his calves felt good. A point of focus for his addled mind.

“Very well, then,” he heard Valjean say. “Stand up.”

With Valjean’s help, Javert did, but only for a moment. As soon as his weight rested on his legs, his knees gave way and it was only the other man’s arms that transmuted his fall into a controlled descend. The water swallowed him greedily until he was immersed from the waist down. His body initially revolted against the vicious cold. His legs spasmed once, but of the curses that came to mind, only a handful reached his mouth. Still gripping Valjean’s arms for support, Javert drew rapid, shaky breaths while he willed himself to accept the invasive cold the way he bore any other kind of discomfort. As he did so, the world around him regained shape and colour, and he could now truly see the man at his side.

Valjean leaned over what Javert now recognised as a metal partition. “Lean back and try to relax,” he instructed, gently pushing Javert until his back and head rested against another, taller metal sheet.

Shifting a little to get comfortable, Javert noticed the room slowed its infernal spinning, coming to a standstill at last. It was a welcome reprieve for his aching head. The cold around his lower body seeped up through his torso, gradually dispelling the cotton from his mind. Not only did it help to see clearer, but also to understand what it was he saw. For one, Javert now registered that he was sitting in a bath of some sort. Stark naked, too.

“Did—did you disrobe me?”

Valjean’s cheeks darkened a few shades. “I had to,” he replied, dipping a small towel in the water.

“And I let you?”

“You were in no condition to protest, if that is what you mean.” He held the wet towel to Javert’s forehead.

Javert closed his eyes to savour the cool of the water running over his face. He tried to recall how he had gotten out of his uniform, but since his own recollection of recent events was fragmented at best… “…I will have to take your word for that, then.”

This seemed to make Valjean nervous. “I swear, I did nothing that was not necessary,” he hastened himself to say.

“Hmm.” Javert cracked one eye open and studied Valjean’s face. To one experienced enough to tell, the older man looked as guilty as he had sounded. Javert shook his head once, daring to sigh despite the sting behind his ribs.

“Knowing you, Valjean, whatever you think you did was never quite so dishonourable to begin with.”

Even in the dusk of the candle-lit room, Javert could tell Valjean was blushing now. “You should keep your left arm above water,” his deep voice said unevenly. “Those bandages shouldn’t be allowed to get wet.”

Javert glanced at this left arm, which was draped over his belly just above the waterline. The bandages were already soaked. “Bit late for that,” he remarked idly.

Still Valjean gently repositioned the bandaged arm. Javert stared. A thin smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he wrapped the wet fingers of his other hand around the thick, scarred wrist before him.

“They are not as clear as I remember,” he muttered, strumming his thumb over the various welts that adorned Valjean’s skin. “I never thought such marks could fade with time…”

Valjean remained motionless, allowing Javert to satisfy his curiosity. “They do not,” he said. “Some wounds never heal.”

How true… “A man’s scars spell out the life he has led,” Javert mused, his mouth voicing thoughts without consulting the functional parts of his mind first. He squeezed his eyes, hoping to regain focus. “I apologise… I’m drifting off, I think.”

“Not surprising. You must be exhausted,” said Valjean kindly, dipping the towel in the bath and running it over Javert’s neck and arms. He slowed whenever he encountered the faded line of a sutured cut, but stopped altogether to brush gently over a small, suspiciously circular scar on Javert’s right biceps.

“If you are right about the tales scars tell, you have been injured much more often than you ever let on,” Valjean said.

Javert ignored the tickle at the back of his throat as he regarded the man. “In my time, I have seen my fair share of cuts, bruises,” he strained to speak, “and gunshot wounds…”

The tickle won and he began to cough violently. The pain in his chest made his writhe, but Valjean leaned in closer to hold him until the fit subsided again. Javert panted to catch his breath, despite the pain all too aware of the calloused hands supporting his neck and his ribs. He held still, willing those hands to stay when every gulp of air made his chest hurt more. Haphazard memories of a doctor prodding him with a stethoscope flooded his mind. Then he remembered why.

“This is going to kill me, isn’t it?” he whispered against Valjean’s forearm. “I survived knives and guns, but now my lungs are simply going to give out.” His breath hitched into a sob. “How ironic…”

“Nonsense! You are not going to die,” Valjean spat. “Yes, it hurts and it is agonizing, but you have had worse. Your numerous scars say so. And if that does not convince you, remember Toulon.”

Oh, Javert remembered Toulon. Every time he saw the mayor, every time he delivered a report, he remembered the details of Toulon with such clarity that he had never told anyone about it. About _his_ convict… His…

“Oh no, you don’t,” Valjean growled ferociously as he shook Javert until his eyes snapped open again. “You know very well that those who give up, die! I spent nineteen years in that hellhole, and I survived. _Nineteen_ _years_ , Javert! If I’m that tenacious, so are you!”

Javert’s head swam. The convict was talking in riddles again, as he had when he had subdued his guard. Javert frowned. He knew that had happened. He remembered Valjean leaning over him, teasing him. Yet the memory was as volatile as a dream that dissipates at dawn…

He shuddered and coughed when Valjean poured cold water down his torso. Somehow the world felt a lot more tangible all of a sudden.

“Those bandages will need to be changed later,” the familiar deep voice rumbled angrily.

Javert couldn’t care less about the bandages. The mild stinging they covered was nothing compared to the pain elsewhere in his body. The cold had numbed it before, but now it was flaring up again. “More,” he whispered.

Valjean obliged, spilling water over Javert’s shoulders and chest until he was wide awake. “Now what did you say about dying?” he demanded.

Javert dug his fingers in the strong arm supporting his neck. “Not just yet…” he grunted.

“Good!’

The clarity of consciousness faded as quickly as it had come and Javert had to make every effort to look at the man. It was rare for Valjean to lose his temper so. If memory served – although he was quite sure it didn’t right now – he recalled only one other occasion that triggered such an outburst: three prisoners beating a young guard nearly to death during a prison riot, now twenty years ago.

“…you amaze me, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean ignored the comment, but retrieved the small towel from the water and wiped it in long, careful strokes over Javert’s body. In the silence, the deep, angry creases of his brow revealed themselves to be worry in disguise. Javert had never seen anything so intriguing.

The soaked bandages slid down his arm as he raised his hand to Valjean’s jaw and tentatively ran his fingers through the peppered beard. The hairs were rough but not harsh, carefully groomed to hold a softness that a convict’s beard should not possess. It was as if Madeleine’s sophistication had mixed with Valjean’s strength and crude honesty.

Truly Valjean bore within him the best of both worlds: a convict and a gentleman. The quintessence of all Javert had ever hoped for.

The slightest pressure from his hand encouraged Valjean to turn his head just as Javert raised his. Their lips met ever so briefly; the ghost of a touch. He lingered as long as he could, feeling Valjean’s short puffs of breath cooling the water on his skin.

“You already caught my attention in Toulon,” he whispered, their faces still barely inches apart. “Even before you claimed me.”

Valjean gasped. “You _knew_ about that?”

A tiny, smug smile. “Of course…”

The habit of convicts to ‘claim’ another prisoner or even a guard was well-known to the warden’s staff. Whether it was out of arrogance or pure provocation, Javert had never avoided his convict, as other ‘claimed’ guards tended to do. Either way, Valjean had never risen to the bait. That had been better for both of them, but a pity nevertheless. Such strength…

A gentle tap against his cheek shattered the image in his mind. He shivered.

“Don’t fall asleep now,” said Valjean. “You are getting too cold. I will help you back to bed and then you can sleep all you want.”

The cold water had made his legs stiff. That was the only reason Javert remained upright for a few seconds after Valjean had hoisted him to his feet. It didn’t last long, though. His balance was so off-kilter that Valjean barely had time to wrap a towel around his waist before he tilted forward and fell heavily against the older man. Valjean grunted under the sudden weight, but he held Javert up long enough to settle him on the edge of the mattress.

The vertigo was coming back with a vengeance. Javert tried to dispel it by focussing on Valjean gently rubbing his wet skin with a dry towel. He stared in wonder at the unusual tenderness in those green eyes as the large, calloused hands ran the towel over his chest, his back and his arms. The older man did not rush at all. His deliberate movements only slowed further when he began to dry Javert’s legs, careful not to disturb the towel covering his lap.

Swaying slightly, Javert found purchase on Valjean’s broad shoulder. The linen beneath his hands was damp, he noticed. In fact, the front of the man’s shirt was blotched with wet patches which made the white fabric practically transparent. While Valjean rose to dry the tresses of Javert’s long hair, Javert traced the largest stain with shaking fingers. Through the wet cloth, he could see the dark ridges that spelled Valjean’s number.

He shivered again, goose bumps rising on his arms.

“Almost done. You will be warmer soon,” said Valjean. “Let me see your arm. No, the other.” He scrutinized the scabbed wounds where the doctor had bled Javert. “Those seem to be healing fine. A clean bandage isn’t necessary.” Then he held out a large, clean shirt. “It is a bit too small, but it will fit better than a nightgown, I think.”

Javert heard the words as Valjean helped him put it on, but his attention was elsewhere. “…yours is a tad too revealing, too,” he said.

“Oh?” Valjean looked down at his shirt and inspected the wet fabric, a deep red crawling up his neck. “Oh. Well, fortunately it shows nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Javert licked his chapped lips. “I suppose not,” he said as he reached to touch the scar through the linen. “Strange, isn’t it? People readily believe you to be an upright citizen the moment you cover that brand. Yet while my brand is not even visible, people sense it wherever I go…”

“ _Your_ brand?” Valjean said, doing up the few buttons of Javert’s shirt that would close. “You are a policeman. You _have_ no brand.”

“Oh, you think so?” Javert laughed hoarsely, coughing a few times in between. “I’m the bastard son of gypsy and a convict, Valjean. Destined for a life of crime. I am only posing as a police inspector, just as you are posing as mayor.” He pressed a hand to his ribs when the knives inside started stabbing again. “The only… the only difference between you and me is that I didn’t take on an alias.”

Valjean’s eyes flared. “You are not posing, inspector. No matter where you came from, you _earned_ your title and your position!” 

“As did you, Monsieur le Maire…” He sighed, instantly regretting it. He winced. “What I became doesn’t change what I am. A criminal in a suit is still a criminal. The civilisation and righteousness of my uniform is only skin-deep. As is that of your chain of office.”

The broad shoulder that supported him sagged a little. “I tried…” Valjean whispered.

“So do I… I fight every day to retain what little virtue I have, but it is a never-ending battle.” Javert glanced at the man before him through heavy eyelids. “You understand this, because you fight the same battle.”

“Every day.”

Javert nodded, his fingers trailing along Valjean’s collar off their own accord. “Scum pretending to be decent men… It is a lonely existence, isn’t it?”

When Valjean tensed under his hand, Javert knew the older man felt the same way. Work and diligence gave meaning to a life only by so much. The rest of it was unbearably empty, a void only someone who understood could fill. Only a kindred spirit…

Acting purely on instinct, Javert wrapped his fingers around Valjean’s wet collar and pulled him close. When he did, a large hand cupped his neck, steadying him when the vertigo made him lose balance.

“Why do you trust me so?” Valjean breathed, pulling Javert closer still. “You are a policeman, I am a convict! By our very definitions we cannot trust each other!”

Javert struggled to meet those green eyes. “…yet you did not run from me when you had the chance,” he whispered back. “Why, Valjean?”

He did not expect the answer he got. A physical shock shot through him when Valjean’s mouth brushed against his, hesitant and wary. Javert quivered, parting his lips a fraction in silent invitation. It was accepted and in a heartbeat, what had been a light touch became a rough, hungry kiss.

Valjean’s lips and tongue were cold to him, but he couldn’t care less. He eagerly allowed his mouth to be ravished. Only when he could not longer ignore the ache in his lungs did he break away to gasp for air. The world was spinning faster and faster, and his head was pounding so hard to drown out all other sounds. He clung to Valjean, desperately seeking a hold while the rest of the world slipped through his fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress at last! Too bad Valjean's got to leave soon to go get himself hanged. 
> 
> Sorry, killer-headache is making me morbid. I'm sure Valjean will be smarter than that...right? ;P


	12. Dubious Consent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments, folks! You have no idea how encouraging that is :)

Drying the beads of water pearling down Javert’s naked body had taxed every inch of Valjean’s self-control. It was exquisite torture to see so clearly, yet not to be at liberty to touch. The parallels to Toulon were glaring. Except that the Javert he had known then would not have pulled him so close of his own volition. Not close enough to kiss…

“Why do you trust me so?” Valjean breathed. “You are a policeman, I am a convict! By our very definitions we cannot trust each other!”

“…yet you did not run from me when you had the chance,” Javert whispered. His hot breath grazed Valjean’s skin, stirring instincts and desires so basic that Valjean did not even recognise them. “Why, Valjean?”

If there was an answer, Valjean was far beyond voicing it. His mind no longer expressed thoughts in words, but in images and sensations that screamed a craving he could not deny anymore. Urged on by his desperate desire to take possession of what he wanted, he pressed his lips to Javert’s. God, the heat spreading through him was so wrong on so many levels. Not just because of what they were, but _who_ they were. Enemies, opponents. Rivals at best. He should let go. He _knew_ he should. Yet he could not.

Then Javert began to kiss him back, and he lost all apprehension in a haze.

Like a starved animal, he leapt at what was offered to him, intent to plunder and devour without truly knowing what he was doing or why. Javert’s mouth was soft, slightly acerbic and searing with a heat that was as unnerving as it was enticing. He took it all in, without reservation and without regret.

Only when Javert pulled away from him, gasping wretchedly, did Valjean come to his senses.

“What is—? Javert, are you all right?”

It was too obvious he was not. He was fighting to catch his breath, eyes shut tightly and his fingers digging into Valjean’s shoulders for support.

“Stay calm, it will be all right. Just keep brea—”

Suddenly Javert’s expression fell and his fingers slackened, followed immediately by the rest of his body. On instinct, Valjean pulled him into his arms before he fell. To keep him from getting hurt, he told himself. To keep him safe.

But even long after the risk of falling had gone, he held Javert tightly to his chest. Madeleine argued that Javert really needed to rest under the covers, but Valjean still refused to relinquish his prize. Along ago he had dreamt of holding his guard like this. He had never tried to make it happen, and now… Now Javert had kissed him! _Kissed,_ Valjean roared at Madeleine. This was what he wanted! This was what he had longed for! He wasn’t going to let that go now!

_But is this truly what Javert wants?_

Valjean recoiled like a stricken dog under the lash of Madeleine’s reasoning. Trembling with reluctance and shame alike, he pressed an anxious kiss to Javert’s temple. Then he carefully lowered the unconscious man on the pillow, lifting his legs onto the bed before pulling the covers up high. As he did so, Javert’s eyes fluttered open for a moment.

“Sleep now. You need it,” Madeleine said.

To his relief, Javert complied without protest. The only evidence that his inspector was not yet fully unconscious was the long fingers wrapping themselves around Valjean’s wrist.

Valjean sighed dejectedly. “You shouldn’t,” he implored, twisting his hand from Javert’s grip as gently as he could. A horrible emptiness came over him the instant he broke away, showing him so much clearer than ever before what the terrible price was he had paid for self-preservation.

For years, Madeleine had refused himself the basic human need to touch another person. Before Madeleine, there had been Jean le Cric, who no one had dared to lay a hand on, except to punish. The few times 24601 had sought reprieve the way inmates of a prison would, the act had been so mechanical that the physical contact it involved became meaningless.

So he had been alone among the masses for most of his adult life. Avoiding touch meant avoiding personal commitment, and avoid commitment was to keep himself safe. Dedicated as he was to the people of this town, he had never let anyone close. Not until two days ago, when Javert had collapsed in his office, so much in need of help.

His heart ached that he had never seen how much he and Javert had had in common. Javert knew more about him than any other person alive, and Valjean suspected that after tonight, he knew more of Javert than most people did. Finding this out now made it all the more bitter that within a few hours he would have to leave this house, and Javert. Forever.

In what little time he had left in this world, Valjean wanted to touch and be touched – the _meaningful_ touch he had gone without for so long. Yet Madeleine’s propriety forbad him. Valjean snarled inwardly, seething with the anger of a parched man who has been given a sip of water, but must be content to watch the barrel, knowing he will never get to have another taste. There was no contentment in that. None whatsoever.

“Don’t be petty,” he heard his own voice say. “Even if you did take what you want now, it would not be fair on either of you.”

Although Valjean loathed admitting it, Madeleine was right. A dying man might be granted a last wish, but that didn’t give him the right to simply take what he wanted. He was a thief of bread and silver, yes, but much as he coveted his inspector, he would not abase himself to stealing Javert’s dignity. That was why he had never effecting his claim when he had the chance, and his current situation didn't change that.

Or would it really be theft? What if it wasn’t? Javert had known all along that he had been claimed, and tonight he hadn’t seemed to mind that idea very much, had he? Valjean felt his pulse quicken at the thought of Javert’s hard member against his hand. What _had_ his inspector been dreaming about that the slightest touch had been enough to make him come? Could it be that…?

“Nonsense!” Madeleine snapped under his breath. “You _want_ to think that, but the truth is he cannot possibly know what he wants under these circumstances anymore than you can.”

Again, Madeleine was right. But that didn’t stop Valjean from reaching a hand to stroke Javert’s exposed chest. Javert inhaled at the touch and whimpered when breathing too deeply was painful, but he did not wake. Ignoring Madeleine’s objections, Valjean let his mind wander down the well-trodden paths of his old daydreams.

Encouraged by the warm skin and the soft hairs against his palm, his hand roamed the gentle slopes of Javert’s pectoral muscles, eventually travelling up to trace the clavicle and the tense shoulder muscles above it.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of doing this to you,” Valjean whispered, slowly massaging the rock hard muscles beneath his fingers in tandem to his daydreams. His ministrations soon drew a soulful moan from Javert. Sweet Heaven, that sound alone did things to his body that ought to shame him. He squeezed lightly, eliciting another such a moan from his inspector.

And just like that, all the self-restraint and reservations of propriety that Madeleine had put up in the last two days dissolved like snow in spring. 

Valjean closed his eyes, unabashedly relishing the thought of possessing Javert. In Toulon, making a claim was about dominance, and consummating it about subjugation. He did not have enough experience to entertain much variety in his daydreams, but the images he could envision never failed to excite him.

In his mind, he had pushed his guard – and later his inspector – against the wall of his cell – of his office - countless times. He always imagined a look of surprise and apprehension on Javert’s face as he was pinned down by Valjean’s bulk. Sometimes there would be defiance, too, but only if Valjean felt like struggling to subdue the man.

Yet as the boy guard had matured in age and strength, Valjean had just as often dreamt of having the tables turned on him. Then he would lose that struggle and Javert would deal out a very different kind of punishment. In those dreams, Valjean would invariably be tied down to a rack, not to be whipped but to be taken again and again, and then some.

He groaned, feeling himself grow hard.

Yet no matter how arousing that was, the best daydreams were of having Javert writhing beneath him, begging to be taken. Madeleine had done his best to bury _that_ dream, too, but in the last two days it had crawled beneath his skin whenever he saw Javert writhing on the bed, tied down and flushed, sweating and so hot…  

Reality hit him like a sledge hammer and he retracted his hand as if bitten. His heart pounded in his throat, but now for shock rather than excitement.

For God’s sake, what was he _thinking_? Javert was seriously ill and in pain! That his high fever had caused a physical effect similar to arousal had nothing to do with him ‘wanting’ anything or anyone.

“Valjean, you idiot!” he muttered, biting his knuckles.

At the time, he had failed to understand the significance of Javert slipping in and out of consciousness several times in the last hour, never mind that what he had said and done was so very unlike him. Only now did Valjean realise what it meant: despite the cold bath, Javert had been completely delirious from start to finish.

“Dear God, what did I do? The signs were all there! How could I not have noticed?”

Sick with himself, Valjean got up and staggered a few steps. Leaning heavily on the footboard of the bed, he hazarded a worried glance at Javert’s sleeping form, but then headed out of the room as quickly as he could.

In the bedroom, the hearth still blazed. The rest of the house was cold and dark. The winter chill that hung in the corridors gripped him, but he shook it off without another thought. He half-remembered to be silent so as not to rouse Madame Prost, but he descended the stairs in a series of barely controlled falls rather than true steps. From the vestibule he made his way to the kitchen, swerving like a drunken man through the dark hallway. The kitchen lay at the end of it. He bumped his arm hard against the doorframe before crossing the threshold and locking the door behind him.

He pressed his back against the wood, his legs trembling too much to carry him further. He stared ahead. A pale light shining in through the half-drawn curtains drew the outline of the stove, the cabinets and the kitchen table with its chairs. The usually warm and lively kitchen was now an oasis of cool peace, where only his heavy breathing broke the silence.

A sliver of moonlight fell past a chair and reached all the way to the tip of his boot. Somehow it felt like a caress, an immaterial hand, extended to him from above. Without meaning to, Valjean let out the sobs he had been holding back. Surrendering to his despair, he sank to his knees and prayed.

“God, please give me guidance,” he whispered into his hands. “Since Monseigneur Myriel showed me Your way, I have laid my life in Your hands. I have trusted Your judgement and I have always strived to do right by You. But now I can no longer tell what You ask of me…”

He clenched his jaw when words failed to describe the turmoil in his soul. He felt an unspeakable anger at the world. At God, too. He begged forgiveness for it several times, but the anger and disappointment gnawing at him refused to be dissipated by pious thoughts alone.

“Why must I give up my life, oh Lord,” he cried, “just when I may have found that which I have longed for? You give and You take. I know this. But why did You show me such bliss, only to take it away immediately? What have I done to deserve such punishment?”

The silence rang loudly. The cold of the stone floor seeped through his trousers and the night air chilled his still wet shirt. It left him undeterred, red-rimmed eyes raised to the heavens, begging for an answer.

“I know You test Your people, Lord. Is that what this is? Do You want to test my faith by asking me to give up what I love most, as you asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac to You?” If only he could believe that this were true. Then perhaps God would interfere and keep him from making his sacrifice, just like He had done for Abraham. But that was too much to hope for. Whatever the townspeople said, he was no saint and he would not be deserving of such grace.

“Giving up my life to do what is right is a sacrifice I have already resigned to making,” he sighed. “I cannot stand by and let another be condemned for my crimes. But Lord, there are other lives at stake. The people who work in my factories, and their families…”

His voice hitched. Did he honestly doubt that God would not provide for them? That God would not give a viable alternative if that was His will? Valjean pressed his lips to a fine line.

“There is the woman Fantine and the child she can no longer provide for. I would help them, Lord, if you let would but let me…”

He choked again. If it was His will that they should receive such help, would not God ensure that another would save the girl? Of course He would. Valjean felt his eyes tear up. “And Javert…” he whispered, already knowing the answer.

He broke.

For the first time in years, Valjean let his tears flow freely, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He had selfishly asked God for an excuse to rid himself of his true responsibility, but of course there could be none. He would have to resort to what he had always done: he would trust in God. He would go to Arras and give himself up in exchange for the life of an innocent man. If that was God’s destiny for him, he would meet it.

His life was in the hands of the Lord, as was that of Javert. He would do whatever he could for Javert while he had the chance, but ultimately it was His decision if that would be enough. Either way, Valjean would not be there to see the outcome.

With a heavy heart that was as sore as his knees, he stiffly pushed himself to a stand. He rubbed his stinging eyes, realising it was not just tears that blurred his vision. He was tired beyond fatigue, but tonight there would be even less sleep than yesterday. Within a few hours, he would have to embark on a twenty league journey. He’d need his wits about them then.

By the light of a single candle, he heated the stove to make coffee. He stared out at the night sky while it brewed, and thought of as little as possible as he drank. The first cup woke his senses. The second cup revived his mind. After finishing the third cup, he recovered his courage. Extinguishing the one candle, he found his way back through the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Valjean, those who follow the path of the righteous shall have their reward, I promise. 
> 
> Coming up next: another reason this thing is E-rated :D Give me time, though, because it's going to be the longest chapter so far.


	13. This, Our Darkest Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: 3000+ hits and 100+ kudos! Considering I started writing (and posting) this story with my head in a paper bag, I am absolutely thrilled! Thank you all so much :D
> 
> As for this chapter: it's an experiment of a different kind. It turned out quite dark (and E-rated), but the darkest hour is always just before the dawn, right? Comments, as ever, are immensely appreciated.

The clock in the parlour struck once as Valjean climbed the stairs. He felt strangely hollow. He had made his decision hours ago, but only now had it become irrevocable. It was all out of his hands now. All he could do was wait until the arrival of his carriage heralded the next stage of his personal _chemin de croix_. In the mean time, he would watch over Javert. And see to a change of clothes for himself: the growing layer of snow on the window sills warned him to dress sensibly before going out.

Calm and resigned, Valjean entered the bedroom. The room was darker now than when he had left it, and a tad colder. Glancing at the hearth, he saw that the fire was down to the last log. It was still burning, though, and would not go out for a while yet. He would have time to change before fetching more firewood.

He pulled his shirt from his trousers and began to undo the buttons, releasing the tiny ones beneath his chin first so the stiff collar came away. He rarely allowed himself the pleasure of not covering his neck, but there was no purpose to hiding anymore. The prying eyes that he had sought to elude had already found him.

He made to open his wardrobe, but when the bed behind him creaked, he turned. By the lonely light of the lamp on the nightstand, he saw Javert working himself up on one elbow. It took the man more effort than it should.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” Valjean said quietly. “How do you feel?”

“Sore,” Javert replied. “And thirsty.” He gazed at the jug that stood beside the lamp. “Any water in that?”

Valjean lifted the jug, nodded and then poured him a glass. “Can you manage?” he asked, handing it to Javert without letting go of it.

Javert looked insulted, but only for a moment. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

His hand trembled as he brought the glass to his lips, but he did not lose grip. While Javert drank, Valjean studied his inspector’s pale face.

“Your chest still hurts?”

“Incessantly,” Javert muttered, finishing the last of the water. The tremor in his hand and arm had progressed to shaking. “My head, too, and nearly every muscle.” He coughed once into the crook of his arm and then reached to put the glass away.

Once he had, Valjean caught his wrist for a moment. Javert’s pulse was too fast but steady. His skin was warmer than it should be, but a lot less so than it had been. “It appears the fever has gone down quite a bit,” he concluded with a silent prayer of relief.

Javert very deliberately ignored the optimism, instead diverting his attention to an attempt at sitting up. He failed when his arms shook too badly to hold him up long enough.

Taking pity, Valjean moved to the side of the bed and helped him. Then realised that what he had believed to be tremors of fatigue were in fact shivers. His heart plummeted.

“Are you so cold?” he asked with trepidation.

Javert looked at him with weary eyes. “To the bone…”

Knowing fully well what that meant, Valjean sighed. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say.

“You should not be. You did what you could,” said Javert. He gestured at the abandoned bath on the other side of the bed. “If nothing else, it cleared my mind for a bit.”

Uncertainty invaded the resignation that had gathered over the last hour, and Valjean didn’t know how to respond. At Madeleine’s instigation, he had assumed that Javert had not been aware of all that had happened tonight, but now he had to entertain the possibility that this assumption was, at least in part, wrong. With all that entailed.

But Javert said nothing. He only shivered miserably again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to be lying down?” Valjean asked.

“No. It will do me good to feel _other_ parts of my body ache for a while.”

At that, Valjean smiled faintly. Such remarks were so typical of Javert that he almost dared to believe that his inspector might indeed be lucid. Lucid, but broken.

Javert’s shoulders hunched and he gasped in pain. “Damn! Serves me right for my vanity…” he grunted between laboured breaths. “Oh, Hell…!” He doubled over as a violent coughing fit overtook him. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around himself, head pressed against his knees in search for reprieve that would not come. Every breath he did manage to draw rattled as wetly as the coughs that followed.

The wretched sounds cut Valjean to the core, but much as he wanted to, he had no hope of providing any alleviation of his inspector’s suffering. He had neither means nor medication to kill the pain, and if Javert was as conscious as he seemed to be, he would not appreciate even the most well-intended of Valjean’s touches. He could only speak soothingly and wait.

Until Javert’s groans pitched to a high whine; then Valjean could not longer endure standing by idly. Propriety be damned, he gathered Javert in an embrace, snaking one hand between the man’s arms so he could touch him there where he knew Javert hurt the most. With his other hand, he rubbed slowly over Javert’s back and shoulders. The coughing did not subside, but the whining did. He held Javert tighter. Contrary to expectation, the man did not fight him.

Eventually an especially severe cough stopped abruptly. Javert cringed, but the soggy quality had gone from his breathing when he inhaled again. Valjean got hold of the nearest towel he could find and handed it to him. Grateful, Javert pressed the cloth to this mouth and noisily cleared his throat into it. When he pulled it away, he spared a glance at the towel before folding it and dropping it beside the bed.

Valjean bit his lip. In this poor light he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he had discerned dark specks against the white fabric.

“I make myself no illusions,” Javert rasped as he leaned into Valjean’s embrace. “It may yet take a few days… but the odds are definitely against me.”

Involuntarily Valjean buried his face in Javert’s long, tangled hair. “Do not say such things,” he implored. “You cannot know if your time has come. Only God knows this.”

Javert did not object, but neither did he concede. He only jerked as another sting of pain shot through him. Valjean pulled him as close as he dared.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. “Anything at all?”

“There is…” After a moment of silence, Javert uncurled himself far enough to look at Valjean. “Kiss me.”

Valjean blanched. During his prayer he had carefully reassembled his world as it ought to be, but now two words upended it once more. “No. No, you cannot ask this of me,” he mumbled as he retrieved his hands. “You know not what you say, and I promised not to take advantage of your situation. Please, ask me anything, but not that!”

“You believe that I’m raving?” The small flame of the lamp cast deep shadows on Javert’s frowning face. “I’m feverish, Valjean. Not demented. My memory of the last days is patchy at best, but feeling your tongue in my mouth… That is one experience I would not mind to repeat.”

Valjean went cold. “You know who I am, yet you say this. How could you not be mad?”

“Mad? Perhaps…” Javert said, suppressing a shiver. “But the dying cannot afford to be anything but truthful. What little time they have left… is simply too precious to waste on pretence.”

Before his mind’s eye, Valjean saw the tribunal at Arras loom. “You are right,” he said sincerely. “And yes, I wanted that kiss. I may have stolen it, but if I did, it is the only thing I took that I do not regret stealing.”

Javert’s lip quirked. “You cannot steal what was willingly given.” The smile faltered as he coughed again and winced sharply. “God, this pain… Please, Valjean…”

At a wild hunch, Valjean caught him in his arms once more. “I can do more than kiss you,” he said, his voice shaking with the audacity of what that ‘more’ would be. “It will not stop the pain, only trade one pain for another. But it will make you forget the fear, if only for a while.”

A furrowed brow raised in silent question.

“If you want me to,” Valjean added, although the heat already coursing through his veins would not easily take ‘no’ for an answer.

Javert looked intently at him. Then a tiny spark shone in his dull eyes. “You. You want to have your claim,” he whispered while inquisitive fingers explored the folds of Valjean’s half undone shirt. “After all those years...”

Valjean swallowed hard, starting when Javert’s fingers found his number and, to his never-ending surprise, caressed it.

“Do it, then,” Javert said. “Do what you will. What you always wanted to. Just… make me forget tomorrow…”

In the back of his head, Madeleine made one last attempt to question Javert’s sanity in this, but Valjean crushed him without remorse. So far he had been on his best behaviour, but now the chain that Madeleine had bound him with shattered with a terrific roar. They’d both be dead within a week, it screamed. What could either of them _possibly_ have to lose?

Valjean sniffed like a predator on a trail, taking in the scent of sweat, musk and the perfumed starch of the borrowed shirt. By Javert’s own admission, a man could not steal what was willingly offered. He had promised himself he would not steal his guard’s dignity, but now he would not have to worry about that. Now he could simply take what he had always wanted.

“You are mine now,” he said, his tones rough with desire. “And I promise, I will make you forget everything but me.”

The stubble of Javert’s beard was coarse against his palm as he cupped his guard’s chin, nuzzling the longer sideburns before laying a trail of kisses from Javert’s cheek to his mouth. Javert tilted his head back to meet him, quelling whatever doubt there might be about his consent.

“You have no idea how much I longed for this,” Valjean growled, opening the few buttons of Javert’s shirt that he’d done up before. Then he planted another, firmer kiss on Javert’s lips. He didn’t hold back when they parted for him, readily letting his tongue explore his guard’s soft, hot mouth as soon as he got the chance.

Now he had the right to do this, Valjean enjoyed it that much more. No looking back, no hesitance, nothing to keep him from actually experiencing what he had dreamed of. Or some of it, because he did not harbour the illusion that Javert would be physically capable of much. The man could not even remain upright if not for Valjean’s arms holding him.

Determined to make the most of this unexpected gift - and make Javert last as long as possible - Valjean lowered his guard onto the bed between kisses, stopping briefly to take in the sight. The shirt had fallen open to reveal the full expanse of that broad, heaving chest. The blankets barely covered Javert’s hips and the dark hairs brushing the edge of the sheets betrayed the fact he was already divested of his drawers.

Javert still panted heavily, trying to catch his breath. To leave him time to do so, Valjean moved to kissing his jaw and throat instead, sucking hard enough to get a reaction despite the panting. Finally a touch on the back of his head urged him to look up and ravage Javert’s eager lips once more.

Valjean forced himself to break the kiss more often. A part of him realised that if Javert lacked the air for this, he would never have the stamina for what was to come. But then he _had_ promised to make Javert forget his predicament, and unconsciousness was the most thorough oblivion of all.

He put one knee on the bed, nudging his guard to spread his legs enough to admit him. Javert shivered violently for something else than arousal, but obeyed until Valjean’s knee pressed against his groin. The intimate touch made him stifle a moan, his excitement showing under the covers.

“In every one of my dreams, you ended up wanting this as much as I,” Valjean mused. He slowly kneaded the growing prominence through the blanket, drawing out the soft moans he had come to love so. “Looks like I was right about that.”

“…you have no idea,” Javert grunted. “Ohnnhgget on with it, will you? Before I can’t…”

“Gladly,” said Valjean, smirking as he began to stroke the well-defined torso. His calloused hands grazed Javert’s nipples, making the man gasp for desire rather than pain. It was a good sound, one Valjean would love to hear it more often. He knew just how, too.

He drove his knee forward a fraction, watching with glee as Javert’s back arched at the increased pressure. The sight of his writhing body went straight to Valjean’s own aching arousal. Dear God, how he wanted to have his guard pinned down and squirming beneath him. He could not wait any longer. Wouldn’t have, either, if not for the realisation that Javert was not likely to ever have done this before. Taking him unprepared like that would be too painful for both of them.

Gritting his teeth at the delay, Valjean leaned in and nipped at Javert’s earlobe. “Will you stay still while I get something?” he said with a throaty growl, “or must I tie you down?”

Javert briefly bared his teeth at him, but then closed his eyes in submission. “Whatever you deem necessary…”

Oh. Oh, that was so tempting, but no. Javert would succumb to him, Valjean decided, not to restraints. “I could shackle you, but I’m not that cruel,” he said, the resentment of his jail time creeping in as it invariably did in his daydreams. Javert’s sardonic smile told him this turnabout was fair play. “No shackles,” he repeated at a whisper. “I don’t think you have the strength to go far, anyway.”

Javert smirked. “You never did know… just how easily you could make me obey you,” he said.

“Then stay,” Valjean ordered as he slowly rose from the bed. Again, his guard submitted to his command. He relished the feeling that gave him. Not even Mayor Madeleine had had such power over his inspector.

Without taking his eyes off Javert, he quickly retrieved the bottle of hand lotion that Madeleine kept at the back of the dresser, and moved it to the bedside table. Returning to the bed, he kicked off his shoes and pulled the covers all the way back, fully exposing Javert’s body to him. He sucked air through his teeth in appreciation. Such a sight…

Now the fire in the hearth had died and the lamp burned low, the room took on the same oppressive dusk of a prison cell at night. The bed was too soft to pose as a cell floor, but that was a minor detail. At last he had this formidable man, who had haunted his dreams and his nightmares alike, at his mercy.

Without a word, he climbed the bed and straddled his guard as he would mount a horse. Javert bucked against him, groaning at the back of his throat until a jolt of pain cut him short. He visibly tried to suppress it, but trembled when he failed. Valjean leaned in to cup his jaw.

“Ignore it. Think of nothing but me,” he commanded, grinding his hips into Javert’s. “Only me.”

Javert nodded. “Only you,” he whispered, growling under his breath as Valjean kissed the hollow of his throat. He weaved his fingers into Valjean’s peppered hair, pulling him closer. “…don’t hold back.”

“I don’t plan to,” Valjean chuckled darkly, pressing his hardness against Javert’s in promise. In response to the surprised whine that earned him, he kissed his guard roughly, nothing short of plundering his mouth. When he let go again and moved to the end of the bed with the bottle of lotion, he left Javert yearning for more.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice so thick he was becoming inarticulate. Javert obeyed, but shivered violently. Valjean paid it no heed. What he planned to do next was sure to get his guard warm again.

He kneeled between Javert’s legs, massaging the pale flesh of his inner thighs. Javert muttered under his breath. Valjean could not make out any words, but the sound alone was encouraging enough. Not that he needed encouragement, not with his darkest desire posed before him so willingly.

He shuddered with delight as he poured a liberal amount of lotion onto his right hand, coating his fingers with a thick layer. Reaching down, he let his fingers follow the natural seam from Javert’s scrotum to his buttocks until his middle finger found what he was looking for. His guard squirmed at the touch. As he gently pressed against the tense muscle, Valjean knew he would not regret the excessive lubricant.

“It would seem you are truly tight as the saying goes,” he said, pressing several times, every time a little more forcefully, before pushing inside. Javert let out a cry, but Valjean’s free hand covered his mouth instantly.

“Shhh. Not a sound. The walls have ears and I don’t want to be interrupted.”

His guard nodded, kissing the palm over his lips. “Yes, privacy,” Javert breathed when he was released, although his hazy eyes said his reply might have been to another conversation entirely. Valjean didn’t care. He had what he wanted, that was enough. If Javert wanted to pretend he was elsewhere or with another, he would not deny him that.

Slowly he pushed his finger in deeper. Javert’s expression betrayed he was more than discomforted, but he did not complain as Valjean moved his hand to stretch him. Breathing hard, Javert raised his arms over his head as he adjusted to the sensation of being penetrated.

While moving his hand, Valjean laid a trail of rough, possessive kisses across Javert’s chest. This close up, he could feel his guard’s heart hammer furiously. When he took a nipple between his teeth, a heavy hand cupped the back of his head and raked through his hair, but this time Valjean broke away from that touch.

“No,” he growled. “You follow my lead now.” To assert his words, he inserted in a second finger, soon to be followed by a third. Javert’s eyes widened, clutching the pillow above him as he bit back a yelp. He muttered half a dozen unintelligible curses that eventually became low, lustful moans as he began to push back into Valjean’s hand.

That would suffice, Valjean decided. He had been leaking enough precome to stain his trousers for some time now, and Javert’s length was as impressive as it had been when the slightest touch had made him come. They were as prepared as they’d ever be.

“I’d love to put you up against the wall,” Valjean grunted as he retrieved his hand. Fumbling with slippery fingers, he undid the buttons of his trousers and tucked them down far enough to release his engorged member. “Too often I have dreamt of doing that, but seeing as you are in no condition to stand up, I will have to improvise.”

He made Javert pull up his legs a fraction and knelt with his knees under the man’s thighs. If Javert gave a damn about what Valjean would do to him or how, he gave no indication. He only arched up and spread his legs that much wider when Valjean cupped his ass and lifted his hips onto his lap.

Valjean quickly coated his own shaft with the excess lotion on his hand. Then he positioned himself and slowly but relentlessly entered his guard. Javert drew a sharp breath and held it, staring fixedly at the ceiling as Valjean pushed all the way into him.

For a long moment, they remained still. Valjean had to concentrate not to lose himself here and now. Being inside his guard was endlessly better than he had ever imagined and he wanted to enjoy the hot tightness that surrounded him to its fullest. To his hands it hadn’t been so obvious, but the sensitive skin of his cock felt the intense heat of Javert’s fevered body. It gave an exciting but bittersweet dimension to his dream.

It was Javert who moved first; a single buck of his hips that sent a shock through every fibre of Valjean’s body. Almost instinctively, he began to thrust in response. 

“God, Valjeannn…”

Those first few thrusts had been sharp and angry, but as he heard Javert moan his name, the vindictive need to possess melted fast and gave way to the admiration he harboured for his guard as well. Through this change, the movements of his pelvis deepened and mellowed along with his mood.

So close as he now was to consummating his claim in its entirety, he was overcome with gratitude. Gratitude that Javert gave him this, and so readily. It might have been an act of despair, but that did not alter the magnitude of what his dear guard had consented to. His fear, hatred, respect and admiration for this man all came together as he thrust once, twice more. Hearing Javert speak his name over and over, Valjean buried himself deep inside him before coming with a silent, hitching sob.

Spent completely, Valjean let his head hang while he waited for his mind to catch up with his body. In that timeless moment, he listened to the soft rasps of Javert’s breathing as his guard ground into him. One glance at his lap told Valjean that while he had peaked to near debilitation, he had not yet kept his promise.

He carefully disentangled himself from Javert’s body. His cock was still hard, but painfully sensitive after his climax. Tucking himself back in his drawers, he laid himself beside Javert, who was by now tossing desperately.

“…jean, please!” he moaned between frantic gasps. That had to hurt, but his eyes spoke of an agony beyond pain.

“Don’t fret. I’m not done with you.” He kissed the corner of Javert’s mouth while his hand wrapped around the man’s quivering shaft. “Do you have the breath left for this?” he asked, his strokes slow but thorough.

“Yes,” Javert hissed, shivering all over. “Please…!”

Much as he would love to, Valjean did not draw this out. He kissed every inch of his guard's skin that he could reach as his hand picked up speed. Fast, hard tugs what was he himself liked best, and Javert responded the same way to that treatment. Before long, Javert’s low moans suddenly pitched. “God, Jean, I can’t… I c…!” The rest was a whimper as he threw his head back, spilling himself in a few short bursts.

The room was nearly dark now. The fire was down to a glow and the lamp was running out of oil. Yet Valjean savoured how their lingering touches were all the more intense for their obscurity. He listened to Javert’s shallow breaths slowing down and felt the heat rising off the man’s skin while his own ebbed away. He wished the moment would last. But of course it couldn’t.

He groped around where he recalled a towel hung over the edge of the bath. Finding it, he used the damp cloth to clean them both as best he could. Javert didn’t shiver anymore, but the sheen of sweat glistening in the scarce light was not caused by exertion alone. With a sense of finality, Valjean got up from the bed and pulled the covers back over Javert’s body.

The embers in the hearth needed more wood. The basket by the grate was empty and he would need to get more from the kitchen. Not like this, though. Without thought of any kind, he got out of his dirty clothes and washed himself with the cold but still clean water from the bath. Still not acknowleding his actions in any way, he got out the best formal suit he owned and put it on. Nearly done, he stared into the mirror on the dresser as he carefully tied his cravat – his last – into a neat bow. In the reflection he saw movement on the bed.

“Javert?” His whisper was loud in the dusk.

A pair of tired, too bright eyes watched him approach. “Daywear in the middle of the night?” Javert said without preamble. “You are leaving… “

Valjean contemplated lying, but then recalled Javert’s words. “I am. I’m afraid I must,” he said earnestly.

“Yes. Arras…”

Crestfallen, Valjean sat down beside him. “It is the only right thing to do. We both know that.”

“No,” Javert protested weakly. “It is _my_ duty to go to the Court, not yours. But I cannot…” He coughed severely, then thumped his chest with fist as if to make a point. “In a few days, no one alive will know who you really are…”

Valjean shook his head. “ _I_ would know,” he said. “And even so, it would not be just to let a man die for my crimes.”

“Justice…” Javert sighed. His bright eyes glazed over, and Valjean put a reassuring hand on his shoulder while he might still feel it.

“I will see it done, Javert.”

“I know you will…” He was struggling to stay awake, but it was an unfair fight. “Can I persuade you… to change your mind?”

“You already tried several times. Quite empathically.”

“And will you…?” Javert muttered, eyes slipping shut.

Valjean forced a wry smile. “You know I cannot,” he answered the shadows.

When there was no reply, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Javert’s brow, disheartened but unsurprised to feel the furious blaze of fever burning against his lips. “Goodbye, mon cher. Although God willing, I believe it will not be long before we may meet again in His garden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter what it looks like now, I will not let them die! This is swear by the staaa-(hold for 13 sec)-aaaars! Beyond that, I'm not making promises.
> 
> For those who care: I went over all previous chapters to correct typo's/errors/increase legibility. For anyone 'squirreling', please note that ALL chapters were updated. Sorry 'bout that.


	14. The Face of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [ artwork](http://chrissy-24601.tumblr.com/post/60065537706/this-wonderful-image-was-gifted-to-me-by) by [fengxiaoj](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fengxiaoj). Thank you ^_^

The darkness was thick as tar. There was no sparkle, no pinprick of light, not even a shade of grey. He had the impression that he was moving, but his feet stuck together and he seemed to have forgotten how to operate his legs. Still he sensed he was propelled forward, but he could not say how or where to.

This world of pitch was not new to him. He remembered being here before, even though that was a long time ago. He remembered a boy growing up in a cell. Back then, he had eventually found a light that shone so brightly that he could see the whole world by that light. It had opened possibilities he had never dared to dream of. The light had offered him a way out. By its rays, he had escaped the destitute life he was born to.

Now he was back in its fathomless reaches and he hesitated to contemplate why. Mostly because he already knew the answer, if he dared to be honest with himself.

Years ago, when the boy in the cell had found his light and followed it, when he had pledged loyalty to the Law that had saved him, he had been claimed by a man. A man so much like him, yet so very different. He imagined it a game of cat-and-mouse between a guard who had grown up in a prison, and a convict who was not a bad man. The man and the game both were as impossible as they were intriguing, enticing. Both had called out to the part of him which forever dwelled in this darkness; the part that could never be redeemed.

The part of him he wanted to forget about, but which Jean Valjean never failed to remind him of.

He sighed as memories washed over him. He knew he should fight them and what they awoken inside of him, but the memory of large, rough hands roaming his body in such a way as he had never experienced could scarcely be denied. He could feel cool lips pressed against his skin; touches that explored unimaginable places; that took him wholly and without reservation. His mind said it was a depravity, but his heart had gorged itself with every moment of it.

Perhaps that was why he was back here, in the never-ending darkness he so loathed. He was utterly alone here. Alone, cold and edging onto despair to find something – anything! – to break the terrifying monotony. Just like little boy had been. He ran his hands over his eyes. It made no difference. The darkness was absolute.

The memory of a kiss ghosted along his jaw. He sensed it, cherished it. Beyond the physical excitement of being touched, he had marvelled at how much he secretly had longed to be close to someone, with someone. All these years of literally not knowing what he was missing.

 _Who_ he was missing…

He sensed Valjean’s lingering presence around him, and hated himself for loving it so. This time, he truly was beyond redemption. Exhausted and ashamed, he dropped his head in his hands. Or what he hoped were his hands, because what he felt was not what he had expected to. He looked up, fully prepared to be met by darkness. What he was not prepared for, was a small word showing up in the palm of his hand.

‘Loi.’

Three tiny letters, nothing more, but they shone with the light he had been looking for. He nearly choked on a sob of relief. Cupping his hands, he sheltered the little light as he moved through the darkness, following its guidance on instinct.

As he went, more words appeared around him, streaming alongside him towards the lighter shade of grey that had appeared on the horizon, much like dolphins following a ship. He welcomed them as long-lost friends and smiled when they tied together to form sentences, articles, chapters and at last the books he knew so well.

The Code. His anchor, his salvation, his deliverance of the monster that lurked in the darkness. It had found him, and he was going home!

The world grew brighter, a rich multitude of greys to punctuate the purest white. The only black that was now left, was the throbbing stain of his heart; a last reminder that the monster inside him would never truly die. He would never fully be rid of himself. It did not matter. The light of the Law would drown out the darkness, as it always had.

Eventually the grey paled further and a perfectly white halo expanded before him. It hurt his eyes to look, but within he could distinguish the shape of an equally perfect woman. She sat on a tall throne, scales in one hand and a double–edged sword in the other; the very embodiment of righteousness.

In his life, Javert had never knelt to anyone. But as every God-fearing man will kneel before Christ, so he knelt before the Lady Justice.

 

* * *

 

Valjean pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and flipped it open. Two minutes to half past three. He was dead tired, but too overwrought to so much as close his eyes. Half an hour left before the carriage arrived. He wished he could keep himself occupied until then, but the fire in the bedroom was blazing, the reservoir of the oil lamp replenished, and it was senseless to pack anything for his journey. There was nothing more he could do. Eat, perhaps. He could not travel twenty leagues on an empty stomach, but what little he had eaten from the plate Madame Prost had left for him had tasted bland. Even the coffee had tasted bitterer than it was.

Initially he had not wanted to stay in the bedroom longer than was necessary, but neither had he had the heart to leave sooner than he had to. Javert slept, by all appearances peacefully. Valjean was grateful for that. He did not what to have to tie the man up before he left, never mind whether that was because of or despite of the fact that Javert seemed to like the sensation of being tied down.

He flipped his watch open again. Half past three sharp. He tried to swallow a lump in his throat, but it would not budge. In the bed, Javert moved in his sleep.

Suddenly he heard a shuffle of feet on the landing, followed by a gentle knock on the door. A distraction at last.

“Good morning, madame,” he greeted at a whisper.

The bedroom door opened with a single squeak. “Good morning, Monsieur le Maire,” his housekeeper replied, keeping her sleep-heavy voice down. “Oh!” She gazed at him for a moment, but then averted her eyes. “I trust you did not sleep at all?”

“Not a wink.”

She quietly approached the bed. “Did the cold bath take effect?” she asked as she reached down and put her hand on Javert’s forehead.

Valjean held his breath for her reaction and the brick in his stomach turned when he saw how her face fell. In all honesty, he had not dared to touch Javert after that last kiss. He did not want to know how bad the man’s condition was, or how terribly inapt _he_ was to do anything about it.

“I did follow your instructions,” Valjean said helplessly when she looked at him. “He was conscious afterwards, but…” He shook his head. “Will you look after him, madame?”

“Of course, monsieur. That is what I promised.”

“But would you see to him after Dr Renoir has him brought to the hospital? I do not expect the sisters can do much for him, but he has no one and the thought of him dying alone…” He searched his pockets. “Please, madame, if you will consider? I can give you compensation.” He held out almost hundred francs worth of coins. She stared dumbly at it. “I’m sorry. This is all I have on me for now, unfortuna—“

He stopped abruptly when she took his hand and closed his fingers over the coins.

“Monsieur, if the inspector is so dear to you, you should stay with him yourself.”

Valjean gazed at her. “I—I never said that he is, did I?”

“You did not need to, monsieur. Your actions speak for you. And your eyes. Not matter how nervous you become when the inspector looks at you, whenever you look at him, your expression softens. It is as if you become another man.”

If Madeleine had not already been buried tonight, he might have protested. Valjean only licked his trembling lips, knowing better than to deny a truth already exposed.

“Javert does bring out another side of me,” he said. “It is a side I’m not comfortable with, but it is the only thing he will respond to.” Even professionally. Javert indulged Madeleine because he had to, but he only obeyed Valjean.

“That is why you need to stay, monsieur,” she said. “I have seen you take care of him, and I have seen his reaction to your care. One touch from you and he calms.” Her lips pulled up in a wry smile. “As a nurse I am qualified to tend to him, but while he is very ill, he is still over six foot tall and quite strong. What do I tell him when he asks for you?”

Valjean looked away. “I wish I could stay, madame. But I cannot. I _really_ cannot.” His eyes wandered to Javert’s sleeping form. “If I can return on time, I will, but there is a chance I will not be able to make that. In that eventuality, madame, would you? Please?”

She nodded. “I will, monsieur. I will look after him for you.”

 

* * *

 

His head bowed, Javert waited for his Lady to command him. He was hers. He belonged to her and he would obey her every word.

Just as he obeyed Valjean…

He immediately banished the thought back to the black hole in his chest from whence it came. Jean Valjean was a convict, a parole-breaker. That man would never know the meaning of the law; could not even if he would want to! To think of such a creature in the presence of all that was pure and right was nothing short of intolerable!

The Lady did not reply to his outrage. She only inclined her head a fraction. At that fine gesture, the words and sentences that floated about began to circle him in fluid movements. For a moment they seemed to be not words, but curious animals.

He had an explanation to make, he realised. An apology. He had forsaken his pledge to the light of the Law, and would have to confess this transgression. It was expected of him. He kept his eyes down, unsure of how to present his case, his plea for forgiveness, but he knew he would not embellish his faults with lies. Not even lies by omission. The Lady saw all the more clearly for the blindfold over her eyes. He knew she already saw straight into his heart and knew of the darkness that remained there.

 _I acknowledge that I neglected my duty when I did not denounce Madeleine,_ he said severely. _At first I had reason to be apprehensive. I was not convinced he was the man I took him for. When I found certainty for myself, by law it was still merely a suspicion at best. I could not credibly denounce a magistrate, venerated by all, on a suspicion alone._ It felt like a lie, but he knew not why. _The man called Madeleine did good. He abided by the law, even upheld it! To the world and to society, Valjean was gone, and there was no reason to suspect otherwise._

The words of Law crept closer and closer, nudging him lightly but not kindly.

_Until that day he and I fought over that prostitute. He overruled me, took matters into his own hands. He never broke a single law or regulation, but I could see in his eyes that Valjean was not gone after all. That Madeleine was only forefront, a façade! Then what could I do but denounce him?_

It sounds very plausible, even to his own ears. But his chest cramped painfully as the darkness in his heart churned. Like dog smelling their prey, the words of light homed in on that darkness.

_Yes, I admit that this unholy heart of mine regrets writing that letter. Had I not sent it, I would not have been informed of the Court’s mistake! Then I would not have known of this other man that they believe to be Valjean, or that he will be tried and executed when condemned! Had I not known all this, I would not have been compelled to confess my mistake to the mayor. Then Valjean could not have decided to correct this mistake at the cost of his own life!_

The milling sentences twisted around his legs, his arms, his torso, condensing into thick black cables that gleamed in the bright light. Confused, Javert looked up at his Lady, hoping for some kind of indication of what was going on, or what was expected of him.

But he knew that already, didn't he?

 _The Law is just,_ he said meekly. _And the Law demands that Valjean is returned to it…_

He did not resist when the living ropes bound him. To be a slave to the law, that was what he had consented to in exchange for a life worth living and beliefs worth upholding. He had made a mistake by not handing over a man he knew all along should belong to the Law. That wretched darkness in his heart had made him doubt long enough to ignore his loyalties, and now he would be punished for that. That was right. That was just.

Yet when the ropes tightened so he could no longer move, he involuntarily resisted their hold. That horrible, rebellious heart he could not still insisted that he had nothing wrong. That if he had made a mistake at all, it was his decision to denounce the man he wanted for himself.

The ropes squeezed harder, making it difficult to breathe. He implored the Lady, but she sat motionless, her attention unmistakably focussed on him. She was waiting. Waiting for an answer.

 _What do you want me to say?_ he cried. _That this monster inside me does not want Valjean dead, regardless of what is lawful? That Madeleine was no threat to my duty to you, but that I denounced him because of what Valjean does to my heart?_

And Valjean _had_ done things to his heart. Unmentionable things! It was his heart that had craved to be subdued not by regulations, but by sheer brute force. It was his heart that had wished to be taken by his convict, and it was his heart that had let Valjean have him all.

Valjean had made him fall. In Toulon, in his dreams, in Montreuil… As long as Jean Valjean was alive, Javert would be scraping by to remain loyal to the Law, always coming up short where that man was concerned. But to imagine a world without him… He could not. As it was, those years in which Valjean had disappeared had been nigh unbearable. He didn’t know how he would survive an eternity of that desolation.

Immediately, the words of the Law cut deep gauges in his flesh. He cried out, and to his immense shock, slick tentacles of words slithered up his neck and into his opened mouth. They delved into his throat, pushing deeper and deeper to grope at his thundering heart. He coughed to get rid of them, but they stuck to his lungs, grating inside of him while he fought for air. Tiny gulps slid in through the wriggling mass, but it was not enough to keep breathing…

Keep…breathing…

Keep…brea…

…keep…

 

* * *

 

Valjean jumped for fright when Javert suddenly cried out, body jerking once before going entirely limp. He was on the side of the bed at once, his fingers on Javert’s neck searching frantically for a pulse. For a moment he feared he wouldn’t find one, but then Javert burst into a terrifying coughing fit.

“Turn him, monsieur. Onto his side,” Madame Prost’s firm voice instructed. Wordless with fear, Valjean made Javert’s wreaking body role onto his side, putting one hand under the man’s neck and the other against the part of his ribcage that hurt most. None of it helped. With each passing second, Javert sounded more and more as if he was choking.

“Madame?” Valjean said with an unsteady voice. “Could you please hand me a piece of cloth and the bottle of chloroform?”

The housekeeper had a towel in her hands before she realised properly what he had asked for. “Chloroform? No, monsieur, you mustn’t! If he is too drowsy to clear his lungs, he will suffocate!” 

“He is suffocating already. No, if—if I do it properly, make the dose high enough, it will be a quick death.”

“Monsieur!”

“What?” he cried, his voice cracking. “It will be kinder than making him suffer so for God knows how much longer!”

“No, monsieur,” she said decidedly, kneeling by his side. “No, please listen to me. I know the inspector is very dear to you, and it is only natural that you don’t want to see him suffer so.” Her voice was grave and calming, yet sharp enough to penetrate the panic that had filled his mind. “I know you want to spare him the pain, but as long as he is alive, we may be able to help him pull through. So, putting him out of his misery is not an option, understood?”

“How can you be sure?”

She patted his arm. “I was an army nurse, monsieur. You are not the first grieving soldier I had to convince to not give up on his comrade.”

Slowly, Valjean nodded. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Javert had more time, even if his own was running out. He gathered Javert properly into his arms and cradled the tall man like a babe. Whether it helped or whether the wretched coughs stopped off their own accord, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that Javert breathed easier now. So much so that his eyes fluttered open when Valjean touched his face.

“..ljean?”

“I’m here. You are safe.” He gently stroked Javert’s neck. The man’s skin was slick with sweat and Valjean could feel the feverish heat even through the thick fabric of his winter suit. “Sleep now,” he whispered. “You need your strength.”

Javert muttered something inaudible, but surrendered to the soothing motions of Valjean’s hands. Before long, his eyes slipped shut again.

“See?” Madame Prost said quietly. “He responds very well to you.”

Valjean said nothing, but held Javert close to his chest. He almost wanted the man to wake up and punch him in outrage. That would break his heart, surely, but not as much as having to betray the unspoken trust that Javert had put in him.

 

* * *

 

A large hand grabbed the black cables and pulled them from his throat. Javert rolled onto his side, coughing and gasping as air flowed into his lungs. The tentacles did not release him, but that same hand hauled him up bodily and set him back on his feet. Confused and dizzy, he could not find his balance, but the fist on his collar did not let go.

Javert glanced up. “..ljean?” he ground out. No, not Valjean. The figure before him looked like a beggar and wore the red shirt of a convict. Not Valjean, but 24601. There was a difference.

 _You serve an ungrateful mistress_ , 24601 grunted. _You give her your life, but that means nothing to her. One mistake and she condemns you._

The hairs at the back of his neck rose. _Only when that is just!_

 _Oh?_ The convict barked a laugh. _Did you think she’d forgive you for your thoughts of me?_

Javert hissed as 24601 traced the side of his face. His heart leapt in his chest, and the ropes of his duty cut into him in retaliation.

 _She doesn’t forgive anyone,_ the convict said. _You said you’d pay the penalty, and she’ll make you. Only the price she’ll make you pay is too high._ _You know that. And you_ know _that isn’t just!_

That black thing in his chest hammered wildly. It leaped at what 24601 said, eager to hear echoes of itself in the convict’s words. Yes, this man came from that same darkness. That darkness he sought to leave behind.

 _No, what she demands is just,_ Javert said sharply. _Justice pained you because that was your penalty, but that doesn’t make the price you paid unjust! The Law brings order in the madness. It separates man from animals!_ And it saved me, he wanted to add. He did not say it, but he could tell the convict had heard that, too.

Suddenly the man’s features contorted, his shirt bleached and his stance changed. Within the blink of an eye, where there had been 24601 now stood Monsieur Madeleine.

 _The Law saved a little boy from a very dark place, that is true,_ said Madeleine kindly. _The Law then raised that boy to the uniform you have become. But you are more than your uniform, Javert. You are a man. The uniform is like me, a façade for something more profound. You do yourself a great injustice by denying yourself to be that man._

Javert struggled to keep standing as the ropes wound all over his body. _I chose this path,_ he said. _I cannot go back to that darkness. I will not!_

Madeleine smiled thinly. _You can. You went back just now. And you came out again, as surely as there will be times when you relapse again. Nothing is absolute, Javert. Even your Lady casts a shadow._ He tilted his head. _Or were you so blinded by her light that you never noticed this?_

He glanced over his shoulder, and shuddered: there was indeed a shadow behind the throne. A long, dark shadow. When he gazed into it, he saw that it was as cold and as dark as the place he was born in. It was filled with contempt, hatred, anger, guilt, resentment. And those were just the perils he could put a name to…

He fell to his knees. Where he had first fought to remain upright, but he now fought in earnest against the bonds that would not allow him to see properly. Or to breathe.

Madeleine watched him, arms folded. _Your duty demands that you are as blind as she is. Except you are not her. You can serve this light you revere without sacrificing your humanity._

Javert craned his head. Madeleine’s face changed, but not much. The distant smile transformed into something more genuine, more tangible, and his green eyes were no longer made of glass. They were real, bright, shining with the vigour of the convict. His heart leapt as he gazed into them.

“Jean?”

 _Wherever I go, I take with me two bags,_ Valjean said as he pointed at the bags that had appeared on either side of him. _In one I keep the light of my salvation, my faith in God, and my will to do good by others. In the other…_

He opened the bag to Javert. Inside it was a jet-black number that howled an unholy, echoing noise.

_At any moment, I can take from either of these bags, according to what I need. If I take from the bag of light, I do not deny my darker side, not do I betray God’s light when I gain from the darkness._

Javert stared at him, eyes wide. The ropes were still painfully tight around him, but they no longer moved or cut.

 _How can this be?_ he stammered, fixated on the two bags. _To choose a path at a crossroads means to reject the other paths. That is how it is. I cannot be loyal the Law while at the same time embracing this… hideous thing inside me!_

Valjean crouched down before him. _You mean your heart?_ The tentacles slithered out of the way with a hiss as he put his hand on Javert’s chest. At the touch, a warm light radiated from his hand.

 _Your heart is not hideous,_ said Valjean _. In fact, it is very strong. The only reason it pains you so is that you continue to shut it out when it will not be ignored._ He smiled, meeting Javert’s eyes. _Yours may be a tough love, but it is love nonetheless._

Javert turned away from the touch with a sharp twist. _Love is a weakness!_ he snapped. _Look at what you did to me! Whenever you are concerned, I cannot think straight. You undermine my composure, my resolve, my duty!_

Furious anger burned through his veins. This pleased the Lady, and the black snakes slithered lightly over his skin, healing what they had cut open before. He found strength in his righteous defiance, but he could sense that no matter how vulnerable love and serenity made him, Valjean was still the stronger man. And Javert wanted that. Damn him, but he did.

 _Then you admit that you love me?_ Valjean sounded pleasantly surprised as he caressed Javert’s face in a tender repetition of 24601’s touch. But this time Javert pulled his head back.

“No.”

The warm light that Valjean carried about him dimmed. _No?_

Javert glared at him. _I cannot afford to._ He meant it, he truly did. What his heart felt when Valjean was nearby scared him to no end. He had thought it a fluke, but a fluke did not last this long. _I cannot!_ he repeated vigorously. He gasped when vicious stabs of pain shot through him, and glanced up at his Lady. He was betraying himself to serve her! Then why did she punish him?

She did not respond.

 _It seems you must learn to live with pain,_ Valjean said sadly. _If you listen to your heart, you must fear your mistress' punishment. Yet if you follow only her, your heart will revolt until it breaks. I have tried to show you another way, but you are so set to destroy yourself. If that is what you wish, I cannot help you._ He rose to his feet. With one last glance, he turned around and walked away.

Panting with pain and disbelief, Javert watched him go. With every step Valjean took, the stabbing in his chest got worse. “Jean…?”

Black tentacles crept up his face. Panic rising like bile in his throat, he shook his head to get them off, but to no avail. He couldn’t break these chains himself. Only Valjean…

“Valjean, don’t… Don’t leave!” _Don’t leave me here! Without my Lady, my life is empty, but without you…_ “Jean, please!”

But Valjean’s retreating back faded in the distance and Javert was alone again; alone with the taut bonds of the Law and his silent, demanding mistress looming over him.

“Jean?”

And for the first time in his life, that scared him absolutely senseless.

 _“Jeaaaan!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Valjean had not moved from the bed. He held Javert in his arms, and waited. Madame Prost sat in the fauteuil, her hands in her lap. They did not speak. In the silence of the night, even the tiniest sound of the crackling fire was loud to his ears. The wooden beams in the walls groaned. A soft whine against his chest told him Javert was dreaming.

Then he heard the distant noise of hoof beats and the rattle of wheels on the cobblestones. He held his breath as the sounds came closer, closer, and then stopped as the carriage halted in front of the house.

Downstairs, the clock chimed four times.

All of a sudden, the nerve-wrecking tension dissolved into a strange calmness. He carefully laid Javert back on the pillow and tucked him in before getting up. When the mattress moved, Javert stirred.

“Jean?”

Valjean’s heart shrank, not knowing whether he wanted Javert to wake up or not. However, when he did not wake at the shrill noise of the doorbell tearing through the house, it became clear to Valjean that he had been too hopeful. 

Madame Prost rose at the noise. “I will go answer that before he rings that bell again,” she said.

“I will be right down, madame,” he called after her. He glanced down at Javert, bending far enough to brush his fingers along the man’s burning cheek one last time. “Goodbye, Javert,” he whispered.

“No.”

Valjean started. For an insensible mutter, the little word sounded surprisingly reproachful. “Javert, are you awake?”

There was no reply. Perhaps that was for the best. He had too little time to say all that needed to be said, let alone all that he wanted to say. It did not sit well with him to leave like a thief in the nig— “Heh.” He smiled despite himself. Appreciating the irony of that thought, he straightened up and headed for the door.

“Jean…?”

It was not his name that stopped him, but the obvious pain in Javert’s voice. He did not want to look back, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Monsieur le Maire?” called Madame Prost as she came back up the stairs. “Monsieur Scaufflaire brought you an open tilbury, so you might want an extra—What is wrong?”

He flitted a look at her. “He…he is getting restless again. If you could be so good, madame?”

By now Javert was tossing. “Valjean, don’t… Don’t leave,” he cried. “Jean, please!”

“No, monsieur,” the housekeeper said sternly. “I can, but I won’t. You cannot leave him like this.”

Valjean shook his head helplessly. “He is delirious, madame. He doesn’t know what he says. It means nothing.” He closed his eyes when Javert called out for him again. “Please understand, I must leave. A man’s life depends on it!”

“Say what you will, but I firmly believe that the inspector’s life might well depend on you staying here!” she countered. “You said you care for him? Then how can that other man’s life be so much more important than his?”

He opened his mouth, but immediately clamped it shut again. No, he would not let himself be tempted to stray. “I have thought long and hard about this, and my decision is made. Please see to the inspector, madame, but I _must_ leave!”

A few long strides took him to the stairs and he hurried down, pretending he did not hear Javert’s heartbreaking cry for him as he pulled his overcoat from the coat rack. Just as he fastened his scarf, Madame Prost came running down after him.

“Monsieur, please be sensible! Can’t you tell you are needed _here_?”

“I am not, madame. You are a nurse, Renoir is a doctor. I am neither and I cannot help him. This other man, I can help. And I must.”

“‘Cannot help’? Monsieur, in my time I have tended to more dying men than I care to count! Every one of them, in their most desperate moment, cried for God or their mother to come and make it better! But _he_ doesn’t!” She jabbed a finger at the top of the stairs. “He cries out for _you_ instead!”

Valjean ignored her in favour of putting on his hat.

“Monsieur, please reconsider!” She clasped her hands together. “You love him, and he wouldn’t be crying your name if he didn’t feel the same for you.”

That broke what pieces were left of his heart. Tears he had been holding back all night forced their way out, and ran silently down his face. “Thank you for your concern, madame, but I’m afraid our situation is endlessly more complicated than that. And consequently irreconcilable.”

The harsh winter cold bit into his wet face as he opened the front door and stepped outside. Scaufflaire himself had indeed brought a small, open carriage. Not comfortable, but very light and therefore fast. The horse in the harness stamped its hoof, its breath bursting in clouds from its nostrils.

Right at that moment, another cloud higher up drifted away and fine rays of moonlight shone onto the virgin snow. A sliver of silver light fell past the carriage wheel and touched the tip of his boot. His breath hitched. Like the ray that found him in his darkest hour, it meant something. A benediction, confirming that he had made the right choice? Of course, what else could it be…

He grabbed the frame of the tilbury to pull himself up, when suddenly a calloused but slender hand covered his.

“Please, monsieur,” Madame Prost whispered beside him. “Stay with him.”

Valjean gazed at her. In the light of the moon, she looked as ageless and beautiful as the angel staying Abraham’s hand. More tears welled up in his eyes, only to freeze on his lashes. What to do? Why this reprieve if he had promised God that he would not let a good man die because of his life’s choices?

_Ah…_

He let his hand fall away from the carriage and stepped back. “I apologise, Monsieur Scaufflaire, but I fear I must delay my journey. Keep the money I paid you. I will call on you again when I’m ready.”

“Right, Monsieur le Maire,” the boorish man grunted. “As you wish.” He worked the reigns and the horse pulled the carriage back out to the street.

Valjean shook from head to foot. He was not at all sure if he had not been presumptuous to do this, but Madeleine prompted weakly that no man was executed on the same day he was condemned. He’d have time to so set the record straight later. For now, Javert needed him more.

 

* * *

 

Javert cried and screamed as the living bonds that he had once trusted to keep him safe now turned on him. He gasped and gagged while they throttled him, working their way back into his mouth and beyond. Fighting was useless. His hands were bound behind his back and every move the made to free himself only tightened the cables further.

A wordless plea to his Lady went unnoticed. She saw him, he knew. She sensed his agony, but was impartial to it. Always impartial. For years he had convinced himself that was enough despite his heart’s yearnings. For years, he had believed it, too.

Then he had found Valjean again. His convict. His mayor. His…

“Jean…”

“I’m here.”

Javert started in shock. He had not expected to ever hear that voice again. Yet it was with him now, ripping the black masses from his throat and his body. Angrily, the snakes bristled and unfolded, the words compounding one on the other until the whole world blacked out.

He fell. He fell through the darkness, but this time he did not fear it. He trusted Valjean. Always had. And if Valjean said the darkness would always end, he was willing to believe that it might; that the oppressive void would not swallow him; that he would not drown in this thundering river of shadows. He would trust in that…

Suddenly two arms caught him and he stopped falling. He couldn’t tell what was up or down, but the darkness receded, revealing the face of the man who had promised him that it would.

“… jean?”

“Calm now, I have you.”

So he did. The man was right in front of him, shining with that same warm light that had chased his bonds away. His eyes were heavy, but he did not want to lose this sight. Perhaps it was the radiance of purity, but everything about Valjean looked brilliant. Even…

“…your hair? …it’s white?”

 


	15. Crisis of Faith

This darkness was blissful, healing. Javert felt he could lie in its embrace forever, until the sound of a cat being strangled tore the bliss apart. He surfaced from the dark with difficulty, almost losing his bearing as the sound cut off just as suddenly. Too tired to fight the pull of the dark, he was about to let himself sink back again when another sound - a deep, pleasant rumble - drew his attention enough to wake up.

The newfound consciousness also brought awareness of his body. He immediately wished it didn’t: every single muscle in his body was one fire and felt like it had been treated repeatedly with a steak tenderizer. As far as he could tell, he was lying on his side. He stayed in that position. Even thinking about trying to turn over hurt too much.

“Madame, one moment,” said the deep voice that had drawn him out of the depths. Javert pulled his eyes open far enough to spy through the slits. His vision was hazy, but there were two figures that he suspected were people in the room with him. He couldn’t make out faces, but that familiar voice could not belong to anyone else but—

_Valjean..._

Wordless images that could be dreams, memories or mere imagination flooded his mind. He couldn’t even begin to tell them apart before that voice swallowed him whole once more.

“That will be Dr Renoir at the door. I will deal with him, but I need to know how much I can tell him about your involvement last night.”

“As little as possible,” replied a higher voice that was unmistakeably a woman’s. “I highly doubt he will approve of my suggestions.”

Valjean snorted. “So far your ideas for treatment have had more effect than his. God help me if he starts about that chloroform again.”

 _Chloroform._ “No!” Javert blurted through the haze. It came out as barely more than a hiss. He forced his eyes to open properly, just in time to see Valjean hurry towards him.

“Javert? Javert, are you awake?”

“Yes,” he grunted. A cool, calloused hand touched his forehead. Without wanting to, he leaned into it. “No more bloody chloroform…”

Another cat died a horrible death. On second thought it might be a doorbell.

“I will go see the doctor in,” said Valjean. “Madame, please keep an eye on the inspector?” And just like that he was gone. Javert heard his heavy footsteps leave the room and jog down the stairs, while distinctly more female figure sat down beside him.

“Good morning, inspector. How are you feeling?”

Like he’d tried to break up the mother of all bar brawls and got knifed in the ribs for his efforts. “…dreadful.”

The woman smiled a professional smile. “Not surprising, considering your condition. Headache? Muscle ache? Pain in your chest?”

All that and then some, but his attention was taken up by the grating agony of speaking with a bone-dry throat. “I’m thirsty…”

“Let’s see to that first, then. There is only water for now, but if you like, I can make you some tea or soup later.”

“Water will do, Madame…?” He stared blankly at her.

“Prost,” she finished for him as she poured him a glass of water. “I am Monsieur Madeleine’s housekeeper, but I also have experience as a nurse that he found valuable to keep close at hand.”

Javert bit back the protest of his body as she helped him up on one elbow so he could drink. At the first taste of lukewarm water against his lips, he downed the whole glass in one go.

“Not too fast,” she chided. “Do you think your stomach can handle more?”

“It will have to… I’m parched.”

She filled the glass again. “On another subject, inspector, I’d like to ask you an impertinent question.”

“Impertinent…?”

“Yes. May I have your permission to go to your apartment and fetch you some drawers and a nightshirt?”

It took a few seconds before the full extend of her words registered, and then a few more before he realised why a strange woman would want to go through his wardrobe in search for underwear. It was by no means decent, but neither was he at the moment. He nodded as he handed her the empty glass back. “Rue Saint Dominique, number 4. The keys are… are in my greatcoat, I think.”

“Thank you,” Madame Prost said as she filled the glass a third time. He drank it all.

While his throat now felt less like dry sand, his arm had gone numb and he let himself fall back on the pillow to stare at the ceiling. At least he lay on his back now. Outside, an argument was coming up the stairs. Javert listened to it with half an ear, but he was too weary to concentrate properly. Until Valjean’s voice burst straight through the walls.

“No, you will not and that is final! I appreciate your skills, doctor, but the chloroform is absolutely non-negotiable.”

“Monsieur le Maire, with all due respect, that treatment is vital to recovery.”

Javert saw Madame Prost resolutely retrieving a tiny bottle from the bedside table and putting it in the pocket of her apron as she got up.

“And I say it already induced a coma he barely came out of,” Valjean all but bellowed. “I will _not_ let that happen again!” He paused for a moment and then continued at a calmer tone. “Now I realise that treatment is necessary, but I cannot in good conscience let you force it on him. He is my guest and as such more my responsibility than yours.”

The door opened and Madame Prost hurriedly stepped out of the way as Valjean – no, Madeleine! Call him Madeleine! – came in with Dr Renoir at his heels.

“Good day, inspector,” the little man in the black suit said. “Do you have any recollection of who I am?”

Javert did his best to scowl. “I do.”

“Very good, very good. Monsieur le Maire, madame, if you would be so kind to leave us.”

“No.”

For a moment, Javert thought he had said that, but his mouth was still shut. Glancing sideways, he found Madeleine – whose stance resembled ‘Madeleine’ too little to warrant that name – glaring defiantly at the doctor.

“Excuse me, monsieur?” the little man said indignantly.

Valjean folded his arms before his chest. “Oh, by all means continue, doctor. I will not leave, but I am only here to see to it that the inspector is treated with respect.”

Javert felt his cheeks grow even hotter than they already were. He recalled having dreamt of Valjean saving him from his nightmares, like the strong man had saved him in Toulon; a recurrent longing he barely dared to acknowledge. Yet he was quite sure he wasn’t dreaming now… or was he?

Dr Renoir made use of Javert’s lapse of concentration to take his wrist between two fingers and a thumb and hold it firmly while he got out his watch.

“Your pulse is still too fast, inspector,” he announced after a while. “There are still bad humours that need to be extracted.”

Javert, still looking at Valjean, saw that the big man bristled. “Is there another way to treat that without bleeding him again?”

“Unfortunately not, although in this case I dare not draw as much as would normally be required.”

In his mind, Javert protested to the prospect of being bled at all, but before that thought made it to his mouth, he was distracted by the burning of his skin where the doctor had touched his wrist. It reminded him of ropes, of restraints. Of something entirely more pleasant than this examination. Valjean had been there, too, tying him down, touching him and… and…

A coughing fit derailed his train of thought. Already sore after days of retching, he curled up to his side as his aching lungs laboured to dredge up mucus. Some of it clogged his windpipe, making breathing hard if not impossible. In a flash of mortal panic, he reached out for support, but found none.

“Let me!” he heard someone yell. Then a strong hand grabbed his while another rubbed his ribs and back. It didn’t clear the obstruction in his throat, but it did kill the panic. His body managed one last cough, and enough air flowed into him again to cough up the rest. A kerchief appeared in front of him. He gladly spit the foul-tasting mucus into it.

“Well, that answers the most pertinent questions,” Renoir said stiffly as Valjean who put the folded kerchief on the ground. “You should burn that, monsieur.”

Despite Valjean’s best efforts, Javert couldn’t stop panting. “Can we... get this over with… doctor?” he wheezed, his patience wearing as thin as his stamina.

“From what I can tell, inspector, bleeding you is essential but not wise. As I also have gained insight in the condition of your lungs, further examination will not be necessary.” Then Dr Renoir looked at Valjean. “A moment of your time, Monsieur le Maire?”

Valjean’s hands stilled. Then he leaned forward. “Do you mind?” he asked Javert.

He did, but it was childish to say so. “No…” But if he’d had the strength, he would not have let go of Valjean’s hand when the man got up from the bed.

Immediately after Valjean had shut the door behind him and Renoir, Madame Prost detached herself from the corner she had been standing in. “Don’t mind Dr Renoir, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” she said irritably.” Doctors often cannot see beyond what their medical journals dictate.”

Her words didn’t make much sense, until shreds of another conversation floated through his head, reminding him of what he already knew. “It does not matter,” he sighed. “I know that I’m dying…”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Madame Prost vehemently. “I have seen men survive worse than this.”

Javert closed his eyes, smiling thinly. Had he felt better, her misplaced optimism would have annoyed him. But as it was, he couldn’t work up the strength for anything but resigned acceptance. Acceptance not only of his imminent fate, but also of the images he kept seeing, which might be dreams or memories, yet felt all equally real. It was scary yet tempting to believe they might be real, but he couldn’t tell the difference. He could scarcely ask Valjean. If the kisses and the touches he remembered were only real in his head, Valjean needn’t know about them.

His focus snapped back when Madame Prost gently pulled the covers up to his shoulders. He regarded her. “You have been here last night, madame?”

“Only at intervals, inspector. For the most part, Monsieur Madeleine watched over you.”

That should not mean as much to him as it did. He was not used to having anyone care about his well-being but himself. The idea that Madeleine – or Valjean, for that matter – would do this was unfathomable. And strangely reassuring.

“Did I wake at all?”

“Monsieur Madeleine told me you did wake up a few times, but you were running such a high fever that he didn’t think you were ever truly conscious.”

His chest stung with a pain he hadn’t felt before. Fever dreams... Not memories, but figments of his delusional mind. He swallowed hard, surprised at his own disappointment. His whole body felt cold all of a sudden.

“I… was that far gone?”

“You were. I’m sorry, inspector.”

What did she have to be sorry for? Unless…  “…you mentioned you have experience as a nurse.”

“I spend several years nursing wounded soldiers, yes.”

Nurses didn’t come more experienced than that, by his limited knowledge. “Then… what are…” The room began to dance around him. “…what are my…?” Colours, shapes, everything blended together into a splendid show that threatened to suck him in. So beautiful, so sweet.

Suddenly a cold, slender hand on his face broke the enchantment. “Inspector? Can you hear me?”

Javert gasped, blinking several times until the housekeeper’s face stood still and the surreal colours faded away. “What are my chances?” he finished when he could. “Be blunt.”

“Blunt?”

“Yes.”

Madame Prost averted her eyes, her expression setting while she searched for words. When she found them, they were slow and measured.

“Nothing is ever certain, inspector. I did not lie when I said I have seen men survive conditions worse than yours. However, if you insist on the blunt facts, then I should tell you the same thing that I suspect Dr Renoir is telling Monsieur Madeleine right now.” She looked him square in the eyes. “That within the next few days, you will suffocate because your lungs stop functioning, unless the fever kills you first.”

He drew a shaky breath. “That makes sense… Nothing I did not expect...” That was a lie of sorts. He had always envisioned death to come to him as he lay on the cold stones of the street, bleeding out from a wound caused by a blade or a bullet. Knowing and accepting the risks of his occupation, dying in a bed had never even crossed his mind.

“But inspector?” Madame Prost prompted kindly. “If it comes to that, I promise you will never notice. If I see the early signs setting in, I will use this.” She took the little bottle from her apron and put it back on the bedside table.

Javert stared at it, regarding the chloroform as a threat as much as a possible salvation. The prospect of dying without knowing it struck him as a coward’s way out, but he allowed himself the relief of knowing he wouldn’t be made to die a slow and painful death.

“Still I may not ever have to,” she said. “What Dr Renoir forgets, and what any nurse can tell you, is that no matter how bleak the prognosis is, a patient’s will to live can make a significant difference. As long as you keep fighting, you have every chance under the Lord’s sky to survive this.”

In his dreams, Valjean had said something like that, too. He remembered his convict forbidding him to give up. How he wished it had been more than a dream. Then perhaps he could make himself believe in miracles.

Or believe in anything for that matter. His sole faith in life had been the Law, but that foundation now began to crumble under the realisation that the Law might not be the absolute justice he had so long believed it to be. It was a tenuous realisation that he couldn’t put into words, but it was there. And Valjean had triggered it.

_Valjean…_

Whether memories, dreams or delusions, he could no longer deny that for years he had believed in that honourable convict. It was never an exalted belief and certainly not as irreproachable a conviction as he had thought the Law to be, but despite his efforts to rid himself of such feelings, Valjean had always been - and always would be - important to him.

_Except that Jean Valjean no longer exists._

Javert started sharply. He had no idea where that thought came from, but that did nothing to devaluate its truth. Valjean was already gone, replaced by Monsieur Madeleine. Madeleine might still bear Valjean’s brand, but in the eyes of the people there was only Monsieur le Maire, the saintly mayor whose heart was big enough for all, but who could not share his world with a convict without losing that world.

And now the judicial system would seal the lid of that coffin. The prefecture and the court had contented themselves that Valjean had been captured. It mattered little anymore that the man they were putting on trial was another. The moment that stranger was convicted and executed, Jean Valjean was dead nevertheless. A gross miscarriage of justice that made him, Javert, lose the two most important people in his life: Lady Justice and Jean Valjean.

Come to that, what was there left for him to fight _for_?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling Javert I won't let him die, but I think he's trying to call my bluff...
> 
> I originally intended to end this fic in 16 chapters, but since miracle cures do not exist and Javert is being *very* stubborn, I'll be needing a few more.


	16. 'Regardez-moi'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter had me in tears at times. I hope that is a good thing.

 

On the landing, Dr Renoir opened his mouth. But before he could say a word, Valjean gestured him to be silent and ushered the little man down the stairs.

“Now you can speak your mind, doctor,” said Valjean as he led Renoir into his study. “I believe I know what you are going to tell me, and I do not want any of it to be overheard.”

The doctor nodded sternly. “I understand, Monsieur le Maire. I presume then you have seen—”

“—the blood? Yes,” Valjean interjected impatiently. He paced up along the length of his desk and back, grateful when he felt Madeleine’s diplomacy surface and drown out the anxiety. “This was not the first time that happened,” he said, his voice much more stable than before.

“Then you know what it means?”

“I have my suspicions. And so does the inspector.”

“You say he understands the severity of his condition?”

Madeleine shrugged. “As well as can be expected of him under the circumstances. He is not one to hold on to idle hope.”

“That is a virtue, monsieur,” said Renoir, flicking a speck of dust from the lapel of his coat. “Especially since in this case there is very little hope to hold on to.”

Valjean had expected this, but the words still hit him like a blow in the face. “How little?”

“Next to nonexistent, I’m afraid. The inspector’s health has deteriorated much faster than I expected. To be honest, a lesser man would have succumbed already. But even with his constitution, it is only a matter of days now.”

“Days?”

“I’m afraid so, Monsieur le Maire. And if you will permit me to be so bold, I believe the situation has taken its toll on you, monsieur.” Renoir gestured at his own receding hairline. “Perhaps you should consider having Inspector Javert brought to the hospital, for your health if not for his.”

“Ah, _this_.” Madeleine ran a hand through his hair. It didn’t feel different, but he had caught sight of himself in a mirror earlier. “This is mostly caused by an other, unrelated issue I must deal with. But that can wait for… Well, for a few more days.” Beyond Madeleine, Valjean sighed, very conscious of the luxury of freely drawing air into his lungs. “No,” he said, “the inspector is still my guest and I will not admit him to hospital. He will be cared for here until… Until…” Madeleine’s pragmatism took over again. “Until it is over. Then I shall see that he receives a proper burial.”

The doctor pursed his lips, but did not protest. “In that case, monsieur, do you wish to continue employing my services? My professional code dictates that I must inform you that I can do very little for him at this stage.”

“I understand that, doctor, and I will not waste your time. But before you go.” He took the letter that still lay at the corner of his desk, broke the seal, and removed the money from its folds. He handed it to Dr Renoir. “Thank you for your help, doctor. If anything changes either way, I will send for you again.”

“Of course,” said Renoir, pocketing the money. Then he put his round hat on his head and tapped it firmly in place. “I shall await your call, monsieur.”

Madeleine showed the little man out, but as soon as Renoir had crossed the threshold, Valjean slammed the front door shut with both hands, using so much force that the heavy oak vibrated in its frame. Hands pressed against the polished wood for support, he did not dare to move for fear that he would collapse where he stood. He let his head hang without pretence. His head was full of thoughts, but he was too tired to register any of them. Last night he had tried to rally Javert into fighting the infection that consumed him. He had believed he had succeeded, too. It was a precarious situation, he knew that, but it was not unsalvageable.

Now he knew better. Javert was going to lose this fight.

The disconcerting feeling that had gnawed incessantly at him since turning the carriage away now nearly devoured him. It felt like a double-edged blade cut into his heart. One edge was that of obligation; of his knowledge that it was his sacred duty to deliver this man in Arras. The other edge was something much more elusive, but equally sharp. It manifested itself as an unspeakable desire to possess and protect what was his; a desire that cut deeper and deeper every time that Javert called out to him. Madame Prost had put a name to that desire, but it was not a name Valjean dared to repeat, even in the privacy of his own mind.

Just as he was about to get lost in this whirlpool of emotions, Madeleine came to his rescue, wrapping him in cool, clear logic. He could not save Javert, Madeleine reminded him. He could not, no matter how much he wanted to. Javert would last a few more days at most, the doctor had predicted. That was all he had: a few more days. _A few more days…_

A few more days!

Suddenly overcome with gratitude, Valjean and Madeleine simultaneously thanked God for His providence. These few days were the answer to his prayer last night: Madeleine would have time to sign the factory over to a new owner and write instructions for the deputy-mayor concerning the town’s affaires. No one would have to suffer for his disgrace. He could even exert his wish that Fantine’s child was retrieved from her foster home!

In truth, a few more days could not change Javert’s fate, but it did give Valjean the chance to be with his guard and support him until death came. This way, his fear that Javert would die alone and abandoned would not come to pass.

And when all that was done, he would still be able to go to Arras and show the Court the number on his chest in time to save an innocent man from being executed.

Yes, _this_ was why he had been allowed to stay longer. Tears of relief ran down his face as he turned away from the door and folded his hands. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered in prayer, “forgive my doubt. You are truly great and I thank You for this chance.”

“Monsieur le Maire?”

Madame Prost’s hurried footsteps coming closer made him look up. “Are you all right, monsieur?” she asked when she saw his tears.

The smile on his face appeared of its own accord. “Yes, madame,” Madeleine answered honestly. The burden that had been pressing down on him got lighter with every passing second. “Despite everything, all will be well.”

She shot him a wary glare. “Oh, really? Monsieur, what did the doctor tell you?”

“The truth, madame. That Javert will be dead within the next few days.”

“Right.” She put her hands in her sides. “Be that as it may, monsieur, he is not dead yet. And while I am very happy to you that you remain so calm and sensible, right now the inspector needs that _other_ side of you. The side that does _not_ equate his death with ‘all will be well’!”

The words roused the unnamed feeling inside him, and Madeleine’s logic and calm shattered under the onslaught of Valjean’s raw fear and anxiety.

“Yes, that side,” said Madame Prost, who had been watching his features closely. “Now, go to him, monsieur. The inspector may not be aware that you are with him, but he notices without fail when you are not.”

Taken aback, Valjean did not move except to step away when she headed for the coat rack behind him. “What are you looking for?” he asked when he saw she was going through the pockets of Javert’s greatcoat.

“His house key, to fetch some personal items he will need while he is here.” She sniffed. “And to drop this coat off at the washer woman’s, with your permission.”

He made a helpless gesture of approval while she pocketed the key she had found, got into her coat and folded the greatcoat over her arm.

“Well then, I will be back as soon as I can,” she said, opening the door. Before she stepped outside, she paused. “Oh, and monsieur?”

 “Yes?”

“If the fauteuil is not too uncomfortable, do try to get some sleep yourself. You need it.”

For a long moment after the door closed behind her, he remained motionless. Then he began to drag himself up to the bedroom, shuddering as he went along. Sleep, she had told him. Not likely. Madeleine might have found enough rest to sleep, but Valjean could not.

After dismissing the carriage, he had been incredibly tired but unable to sleep. Even when the panicked nightmare that had left Javert crying for him had been dispelled, the man was still so sick that Valjean had not dared to leave him unattended for more than a few moments. Little had changed intervening hours. Too little. Bearing the doctor’s words in mind, Valjean knew he would not sleep a wink until Madame Prost had returned to keep watch in his stead.

As he crossed the landing, Madeleine argued that if death were to take Javert so quickly, it would be a blessing. He might die alone, but he would not even be aware of it, would he? And then Valjean would not have to watch the man die a slow, painful death.

There was a truth in the reasoning, but Valjean didn’t like it.

In the bedroom, he hung his topcoat over the footboard of the bed and, not wanting to disturb Javert’s apparent sleep, lowered himself into the fauteuil as quietly as possible. Still it did not surprise him that at the merest creak of the fauteuil’s springs, Javert stirred.

“It’s only me,” he responded softly.

Javert opened his eyes. They shone brightly with fever, their usual pale blue almost obscured as they studied the man in the fauteuil from beneath a frown. Or tried to.

“…who are you?”

In that instant, Valjean’s heart broke. “Who I am?” he stammered, nonplussed. “Javert, do you not recognise me?”

“I see your face, but that means little…”

He put his hands over his mouth, his own eyes wide in shock. “You have no idea?” he asked through his fingers. “No idea at all?”

“…you look like Jean Valjean,” Javert rasped with great effort, “but he is dead. Madeleine destroyed him… Yet there is not enough of Madeleine about you… to be that man, either.”

Madame Prost’s words echoed in his head and he realised how legitimate Javert’s question was. Who _was_ he, really? With only the one identity, be it Madeleine or Valjean, it was easy. But switching between them as he had these past days, it had become so hard to keep them separated. Was the Madeleine-alias a coat, to be worn or removed as the situation demanded? Or was Javert right and had Valjean become the false identity instead?

No, that wasn’t right. What Valjean had done these last two days was not a falsehood. Those had been his true feelings, his true desires. He remembered how the brand on his chest had burned at Javert’s touch. It did so now, spelling out the number that was not another alias, but a numerical way to write his true name.

_This is who I am. I’m Jean Valjean!_

He had to be. Madeleine would not be able to convince the court he was Valjean, and neither could Madeleine provide Javert the comfort he so desperately needed now.

So he made sure there was no trace of Monsieur Madeleine when he took his clean handkerchief from his pocket and poured a small measure of water from the jug on it to soak it. But when he sat down on the edge of the mattress, Javert still turned his head away.

“Leave, monsieur…” he growled.

The rejection was deserved, but nevertheless painful. And unacceptable.

“No, _mon gardien,_ ” said Valjean reverently, holding the cold cloth gently to Javert’s forehead. “Look at me. I am who you know me to be.” He was ignored. “Javert, please. _Regardez-moi._ ”

With a hesitance that might have been reluctance or pain, Javert eventually did turn back to gaze at him. He frowned still, but this time in surprise. “Valjean…?”

Valjean could not suppress a smile of relief. “Yes, only me.” He dabbed Javert’s temples with the wet kerchief. “Please accept my apology. Over the years it was safer for me to be Monsieur Madeleine, but while he may have buried me, he did not destroy me. I’m very sorry if I made you think he had.”

Javert’s lips quirked listlessly. “…you are not. Not should you be… Madeleine is your sanctuary. How you hide in plain sight…”

“Yet it never fooled you, did it?”

The bright eyes glazed over as they stared in the distance. “I… wished it to fool me. It was plausible enough that it should…”

“But you are no fool, and I am not Monsieur Madeleine.” He refolded the kerchief and carefully wiped the planes of Javert’s face and neck. “There is no reason anymore to pretend that we are anything but who we are.”

Javert closed his eyes and murmured in what Valjean took to be agreement. When long fingers searched for him, Valjean wrapped them with his own and planted a light kiss on their knuckles. Only as the heat met his lips did he realise what he was doing. He tore himself away, but then saw Javert’s faint but genuine smile. Valjean stilled. Never before had he seen his redoubtable inspector smile in earnest.

“Please, stay…?” Javert whispered, shaking Valjean from his reverie.

“Of course,” he whispered back. “Of course. I will stay right here.”

True to his word, he did not move as Javert drifted back to sleep, still clutching his hand. His own eyes were drooping, though. The deep anxiety of the last days combined with too little food and even less sleep compounded to the devastating exhaustion that now ploughed him down. Yet he would not forsake his promise.

Without letting go of Javert’s hand, Valjean turned around on the bed, so he sat his back against the headboard. The bed was big enough that he could sit relatively comfortably without intruding on Javert too much. Not that his proximity was considered an intrusion: as soon as Valjean had settled, Javert rested his head against his thigh. Such trust. It should be unnatural between them, and Valjean still could not fathom why it wasn’t. Too tired to contemplate, he put his other hand on Javert’s shoulder, closed his eyes and leaned back; assured that in this position, he would be wide awake immediately at the first sign of distress.

But his head was too restless to sleep well, let alone deeply. Several times he woke, not sure what it was that had drawn his attention. Maybe a sound or a thought, but it was never anything that lasted beyond his waking. Nor was it ever enough to wake him properly, for the moment his eyes slipped shut again, he dreamed fleeting dreams until the next incursion made him jump.

This time he dreamt of baring his chest before the court. How their gazes carved into him so deeply as to make the numbers that spelled his guilt bleed again. He knew it was a dream, though, because he did not recall travelling through the snow. While his mind was twenty leagues away, his body was still in Montreuil, in his bedroom. With Javert.

Once more he woke with a jolt. The light in the room was hazy, as if dusk was setting in. Had he slept so long? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Beside him, Javert tossed in the grip of yet another nightmare.

Helpless and hopeless, Valjean manoeuvred himself so he could lie down at Javert’s side and put his arms around the man. With words and touch, he tried to calm his guard and shelter him from what plagued him so, but Javert’s body bucked against his, fighting Valjean’s tenderness as he fought the monsters in his dream. It was all Valjean could do to hush him, with little effect. He did not want to be forceful, but at this rate Javert would hurt himself. With the strength and determination of Jean le Cric, Valjean grabbed hold of the man, literally pinning him down on the bed to keep him from thrashing too much. 

_You cannot save him._

As it spoke, Valjean believed the voice in his head to be Madeleine. It was a voice of reason, heavy with finality, but so loud. Too loud to be his own thoughts, as Madeleine’s were.

Suddenly he was aware of a shadow behind him. How he could see it standing by the footboard while he was facing the other way, he couldn’t tell. But it was there and he saw it. It was the person who had spoken.

Madame Prost – for who else could it be – wore a long cloak, the hood pulled down so far over her eyes he could not see her face. For a second, he wasn’t sure if there even _was_ a face hiding in the deep folds. Right then, Javert arched back in pain. Valjean held the man tightly until Javert surrendered to him. When he looked up again, the shadow by the footboard was gone.

In his arms, Javert had ceased his struggle entirely. The man lay still, eyes wide, pale as a sheet and panting like a fish on land. Worried, Valjean framed his forehead. It was clammy and cold to the touch. As cold as he was pale…

“Javert?”

If the man heard him, he gave no sign. Only his breath grating wetly in his lungs broke the silence. Valjean felt his guard tense in terror. Determined to do something, he sat up, pulling Javert onto his lap and cradling him as best he could, all the while whispering what he wished he could do to make it better. To take the pain and the fear away.

_You cannot save him._

Valjean gritted his teeth as the strange voice echoed in his mind. Perhaps it was right, perhaps he couldn’t save Javert. But that didn’t mean he could not try.

All of a sudden, Javert erupted in a horrific coughing fit. Startled, Valjean released Javert’s writhing body only to renew his hold and pull him close to his chest again. Javert could barely breathe between coughs. It sounded as if he was being torn apart from the inside out. Valjean held his guard tightly, hoping that somehow that would keep Javert together; to make him whole again.

It wasn’t enough.

Coughing to the point of convulsing, Javert cupped his hands over his mouth and gagged. Valjean froze in horror when no other sound followed.

“Jav—?”

Javert’s body jerked sharply as an almost explosive cough burst from his lungs. Blood spat between his fingers, splattering against the Valjean’s shirt.

“Oh, God…”

Another cough. More blood, running down Javert’s hands in thick, red droplets. Speechless, Valjean pulled the stained hands away in disbelief, only to find his guard’s mouth and nose were smeared with blood, too.

“No. Dear God, no…”

Javert glanced at him, tired and almost apologetic. Then he coughed once more, a spray of fresh blood spewing from his mouth and spilling down his chin. Valjean gasped, a desperate cry stuck in his throat. He cupped Javert’s ashen face, chanting his name like a mantra. For a long, dreadful moment, nothing happened. Then Javert’s head lolled back and his body sagged in Valjean’s arms, light and life draining from his pale eyes.

“NO!”

Valjean bolted upright with a strangled gasp. It would have been a scream, but nothing came out until he inhaled again. “God, no,” he muttered, “God, no, please!” He swallowed hard, keeping his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see the blood on his clothes, on the sheets, on Javert…

Something brushed against his leg, making him start. In reflex, he looked down.

“…stop tossing,” a deep voice grunted sleepily into the fabric of his trousers.

Shaking with disbelief, Valjean stared. There was Javert, his dear guard, alive and curled up against him. The blood he had expected was not there, and they were alone. No hooded shadow waited for the inevitable to come to pass. Not yet, anyway. Valjean could not tell if he was waking or dreaming now, or if Javert dying in his arms was the true reality that his mind ignored in ferocious denial.

Puffs of hot breath stroking his thigh brought him back to the here and now. He reached out a trembling hand and combed his fingers through Javert’s hair. It was tangled and in desperate need of a wash, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Javert winced whenever Valjean’s fingers caught in the strands. Dead men didn’t wince. They still had time.

A sudden rage rose in him like a leaping tiger, making him want to cry and scream. Javert was his. His guard, his inspector! _His!_ What right did anyone – even God! – have to take him away?! How did even the Lord on high expect him to give up on this man without a fight?! He didn’t care that the doctor had said that there was no hope for Javert. Valjean did hope, with whole his heart; so much that it hurt!

Yet he uttered not a sound. His heart hammered and whole body shook with anger and indignation, but his hand was steady when he touched Javert’s feverish skin. Dear God, if he could tear his own chest open and shelter this man with his body and his soul; hold him, protect him… As sure a night follows day, he would!  Had it been possible, he would have long since have ripped that infection from Javert’s body, even if that meant succumbing to it himself.

But that wasn’t possible, and the best Valjean could do was to simply be there, as Javert had asked him to.

So he moved about as quietly as possible until he could lay himself down beside Javert. With a dejected sigh, Valjean wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders and held him as close as he dared. The searing heat of Javert’s body burned through the layers of cloth between them. Valjean desperately willed the insufferable fire to quell, to stop torturing his beloved so. It took him too little effort to imagine that a fever like this could kill even a man as strong as Javert. Could, and would…

No!

Maybe Madeleine wanted to believe the reprieve that had been granted was to deal with his moral obligations, but the tiger that was Valjean roared in defiance. He would not hold Javert’s hand and watch him slip away. No! He would hold his guard’s hand and help him fight!  So what if an innocent man was to be wrongfully condemned if he did that? Would he save his own soul before God at the price of Javert’s life? Because that was the trade, was it not? He could not save both men. He would have to choose!

…except he had made that choice already, hadn’t he? Years ago, when he had claimed that young guard as his own.

Valjean smirked at his own expense. He had been a fool! Such a fool to think that saving a stranger could ever be more important than saving the man he loved. That his immortal soul could ever be more valuable than Javert’s. Of course it wasn’t. How could it?

He pressed a long, tender kiss to Javert’s hot brow. “I won’t let you go, _mon gardien,_ ” he whispered. “I swear I will not let you go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I'd been crying... Before anyone asks: as Javert's death is a dream rather than an actual event here, I'm not activating the Character Death trigger warning. But I did include a warning in the tags, as I do with every new chapter.


	17. A Taste of Medicine

Valjean started when an earthquake rocked him. His eyes snapped open, darting around to find his bearings.

“Easy, monsieur,” a soft voice whispered by his ear. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but lunch will be ready in about ten minutes.” He turned his head and found Madame Prost smiling down at him as she lifted her hand from his shoulder. “I would have let you sleep a while longer, but you both need to eat and he will need your help.”

Valjean registered her words but not their meaning. He blinked blearily at his housekeeper and the world in general. Was he lying down? And why was he so hot?

“Take your time to wake, monsieur. I will bring your meal up when it’s ready.”

Her footsteps retreated and a door fell shut. The sound of it brought his consciousness to attention and finally it dawned on him where he was: on his bed, on top of the covers, with both arms wrapped possessively around Javert. A memory of blood forced its way to the forefront of his mind and Valjean stilled, holding his breath until he was sure he could feel the shallow gasps of Javert’s. The man was vast asleep, curled up against Valjean like a child.

Valjean wanted nothing more than to stay like this. Not that he was comfortable: one arm had gone numb, his shoulder ached and holding Javert’s feverish body so close for so long had made him break out in a sweat himself. But he loathed disturbing Javert. The inspector was calm and quiet now, the furrows in his brow barely visible; a rare and endearing sight. Valjean rested his head. It was very tempting to let himself drift off to sleep again. He was tired and the heat made him drowsy. Just a few more minutes...

Suddenly Javert coughed once. In an instant, Valjean was awake and alert. He waited, counting seconds, counting the warm puffs against his shirt. He had counted to thirty, then forty and fifty before he dared to believe Javert was not slipping away from him just yet. Not that he knew how he could tell. He had no idea what the signs to look out for. He would have to ask Madame Prost that.

Madame Prost… He sobered further still as he realised what this scene must have looked like to her keen and observant eye. It was not something he wanted to discuss, but he couldn’t leave the issue unaddressed, either, lest she drew the wrong – or worse, the _right_ \- conclusions.

“I will be back soon,” he whispered as he carefully retrieved his arm from under Javert’s neck. “I won’t go far, and I won’t be long.”

Javert groaned, but did not wake. In a flash it occurred to Valjean that his dear guard might never wake at all; a thought he pushed away radically as he got up from the bed, straightened his clothes and headed down the stairs in a hurry.

A wave of wonderful odours brought him to a halt the moment he entered the kitchen. Fresh bread, smoked ham, brie, parsley and various other delicious foodstuffs lay on the kitchen table between at least a dozen little jars with dried herbs. A big pan of what smelled like soup gurgled on the stove under the watchful eye of Madame Prost.

At the sight of all this, Valjean’s body loudly informed him that he was hungry. Yet when his stomach clenched, it was not because it craved a bowl of that soup.

“Madame, about what you just saw,” he said in what he hoped was a stern voice. “I would greatly appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”

Madame Prost looked up without pausing from her work. “Kept what to myself, monsieur?”

Valjean grimaced, not sure if she was being honest or being smart. Then a crooked smirk appeared and he knew the answer.

“What is there to tell?” she said. “I advised you to get some sleep, and I’m very glad that you took that advice to heart.”

“I _did_ intent to sleep in the fauteuil, of course.”

She gave him a quaint look. “Monsieur, why would you apologise for sleeping in your own bed?”

“Well, if that bed is—“ he stopped, hearing the hole he was digging for himself. “You are right, of course. But even so I would ask you not to speak of it again. To anyone.”

Taking a big ladle, she stirred the boiling broth with slow, circular motions. “Why are you afraid that I would scandalise you, monsieur? There is no shame in comforting a man on the brink of death. None that I can think of, at least.”

Ah, yes. Too keen and observant by far. Valjean cleared his throat. “I tend to agree, madame, but there are those who would not consider it ‘comforting’ in the Christian sense.” He nervously tapped a finger on the table’s edge. “They would call it ‘unnatural’ instead.”

Madame Prost did not respond right away. She brought up the ladle and tasted the broth in silence before adding some more herbs and resuming the regular movements. “I know what people you refer to, monsieur,” she said at last. “And it is not unthinkable that they would scandalise your diligence and devotion to the inspector if given the chance. But you should know I am not one of them, nor will I provide such people the opportunity to do so. I have seen too much suffering, monsieur. I know that every smidgen of love, whatever form it takes, should be held sacred.”

Valjean exhaled deeply. It was strange but so very welcome to hear his own confused thoughts spelled out in clear words to him. “Thank you, madame. That—that means a lot to me.”

She made a point of not looking at him. “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, monsieur,” she blurted, just a fraction too fast, “but somehow it has always seemed to me that you have known too little love in your life. Now you have finally found it, I will not begrudge you that.” Her tone did not exactly belie her words, but neither did it confirm them. Valjean, however, did not dwell on that when an other, darker thought pressed itself on him.

“If I have found it, I stand to lose it again before long.” He swallowed hard at the images from his nightmare dancing before his mind’s eye. “Madame, please tell me what to expect.”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “I cannot. Whether he lives or dies is up to him.”

“There are many ways for a man to die, madame. What can I expect of his?”

Now Madame Prost did stop her work to look at him. “Either his heart bursts, or his lungs fill with fluid and he essentially drowns,” she said plainly. Then she shook her head. “Whichever comes to pass, the inspector will know little of it. I promised him I would sedate him before he has a chance to realise it’s happening.”

Valjean felt queasy. “Would he be spewing—?” He broke off, hands fretting with their cuffs. “I dreamt that he drowned, in blood. It was everywhere…”

The housekeeper blinked a few times as she distilled the real question. “I see. No, monsieur, it wouldn’t happen that way. And I must remind you again that it might still not happen at all.” She gave him a maternal pat on the arm as she passed him on her way to the crockery cabinet. “Take it from an old nurse, monsieur: it’s not over until it’s over.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, there is plenty you can do,” she said, selecting a large mug from the cabinet. “Especiallyyou. However, it will take a lot of effort and there is never any guarantee that it will be enough to save him.”

He tensed. “I will do whatever it takes, madame.”

“I know that. And for your sake I will help you, because you cannot hope to do it all by yourself.”

Valjean opened his mouth to refute, but didn’t. Even after having slept a few hours, he was still dead tired and the day was not halfway gone. He would indeed need all the help he could get. “Please tell me what to do.”

Madame Prost returned to the pan on the stove. “To overcome an illness, a man needs to eat and drink properly, and be comfortable. Comfort you can provide him, as we have seen, but unfortunately that is the least essential of the three.”

“He did drink water at several occasions,” said Valjean.

“Yes, but not enough by far given how much he’s sweating. He must have at least one glass every hour, day and night. Preferably more if he can manage it. And he needs sustenance.” She tapped the edge of the pan. “This broth is still thin enough to drink easily, and it contains various medicinal herbs.”

Curious, Valjean sniffed. “I detect camomile, which is used to calm the nerves and reduce stomach cramps; fennel to purge mucus. You also added sage and… something I cannot place.”

“Well done, monsieur! I didn’t know you were so well-versed in botany.”

He smiled thinly. “You aren’t the only one with hidden skills, madame. What are those other herbs?”

“Monks cress and willow bark, to help fight the fever, as well as several beneficial and tasty herbs.” She dipped in the spoon and let him sip the hot broth.

“Peculiar,” he said warily. Certainly the broth smelled better than it tasted.

Madame Prost pulled up a brow. “Herbs and marrow are little to work with in terms of flavour, monsieur. This doesn’t truly qualify as food, but alternating every hour between a cup of this and a cup of milk is a good start. The inspector won’t be able to handle anything more at the moment.”

Valjean sucked on the inside of his mouth, tasting the salt and the grit that the broth had left behind. For all the medicine it contained, it was still as flimsy as Javert’s chances. “I do not mean to belittle your efforts, madame, but it seems to me as if we hope to win a gunfight with a pocket knife.”

Whether it was merely the light or the result of last night’s strain, but Valjean thought the lines in the woman’s face were deeper than normal. “Monsieur,” she said with a sigh, “imagine if you will that you find yourself in a dark alley. You are cornered by a man pointing a loaded gun at you, and all you have to defend yourself with is your pocket knife. Now, would you drop the knife and surrender? Or would you use it to fight, hoping to knock the gun from the robber’s hand and even the odds?”

The answer came to him on pure instinct. “I see your point, madame. A knife is better than nothing.”

“Precisely. The broth contains liquids, medicine and it will prepare his body to accept the solid food he needs. And if nothing else, having a full stomach will help him regain a measure stamina, which he needs just as badly. That is where comfort comes in, too.” She glanced at him. “Did you ever notice, monsieur, how being comfortable increases your stamina and discomfort decreases it?”

He had. Oh, how he had! Hunger could be born as long as you were warm and safe. Cold, hardship and pain could be born as long as your stomach was full. Enough of one thing made the lack of another bearable. Lack of all, however, took away the will to fight and will power was everything. That was what he had been trying to convince Javert of.

“I do what I can, madame.”

“Oh, no one who had seen your efforts would doubt that, monsieur _._ But you can do even more.”

“What do you suggest?”

She left the pan to fill two jugs with water from the big bucket in the corner. “Physical touch definitely helps, but so does feeling clean.” She put the heavy jugs on the table. “Bathing him again is too much of a strain, but a sponge bath will work just as well. The clean nightshirts I collected from the inspector’s apartment are on the dresser, and if you could help him into the fauteuil for a few minutes, I will change the bed sheets, too.”

As if mesmerized by her words, Valjean traced the edge of a jug, rubbing at a single drop that spilled from the rim. He didn’t mean to, but the thought of Javert naked before him sent blood rushing to his face. It was inappropriate to think of such things under these circumstances, but he couldn’t help but remember the touch of Javert’s hands, the intense heat of his body and those wonderful moans he had made when they—

He paled. It was impossible that their act of despair had not left traces. He had cleaned up, but the lotion, for one, would have left stains on the sheets that might still be visible. That was a risk. Even though Madame Prost had been exceptionally patient and understanding about his behaviour towards Javert, he didn’t dare to push her too far. She had accepted his secret and promised to keep it, but there was no telling what would happen is she decided otherwise.

Reckless! He had been so reckless! Within the confines of this house, Valjean had considered himself safe. But already Madame Prost had recognised him beyond Madeleine. Even if she didn’t know his name, she had seen the difference in his face. If she had, others might, too, because the sanctity of this house was not nearly as absolute as it appeared at first sight: beside Madame Prost, he had been seen by gamin, by Scaufflaire. And by Dr Renoir.

He pressed his knuckles to his lips. Twice Renoir had met Madeleine, who was concerned about his chief of police, but fairly distant. However, this morning the doctor had met _Valjean_ , who was not at all distant, but wrought with worry and extremely protective of his guard. Two very different men wearing the same face. If Renoir had noticed that the way Madame Prost had…

“Monsieur?”

His jaw tensed at the implications. He had to assume that the secret of Valjean was out, if still nameless. It might not be recognised for what it truly was, but gossip was inventive and he was sure the whole town already knew of his decision to take care of Javert. Add to that the story that his housekeeper had brought the policeman’s uniform to his own washer woman, followed shortly by bed sheets with tell-tale stains, and a scandal was born that would make his arrest pale by comparison. Worse still, such a scandal would not only ruin him, but Javert as well. Whether Javert would be alive to suffer it or not, that was something Valjean would not allow to happen.

“Monsieur!”

He snapped up from his thoughts. “Burn them,” he growled.

“What?”

“The dirty linen. When you change the bed, I want the sheets burned, not washed.” Seeing the puzzled look on her face, he quickly added: “The shirt and the towels, too, like Dr Renoir recommended. I will give you money this afternoon to buy replacements.”

The surprise ebbed from her face and she nodded. “As you wish, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean froze. Madeleine had never taken to his office lightly, but to him, the title was nothing sort of alien. “Please, madame, do not call me that.”

“But monsieur!” she exclaimed, aghast. “It wouldn’t be proper not to!”

That it wasn’t. Madeleine would rile against Valjean’s suggestion at full force for that very reason. Knowing this, Valjean waited for Madeleine’s implacable logic and propriety to arrive at the forefront of his mind. It did not. There was common sense and indeed a great deal of insight he felt he could access, but the typical feeling – or lack thereof – that he had come to recognise as Monsieur Madeleine was absent.

“Call me ‘monsieur’ if you must,” Valjean said at length, “but leave that title out. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Monsieur, are you all right?” asked Madame Prost as she rounded the table. “You are pale as a sheet! Please don’t tell me you are coming down with something, too?” She made to touch his brow, but he shied away.

“I’m well, madame,” he said earnestly. “Really I am. But please humour me. These last few days have been very taxing and there is still more to come. I am neglecting my official duties as it is. I beg you to not remind me of them anymore.”

Madame Prost took a step back, her eyes set sternly. “If your burdens are so heavy, monsieur, then maybe—“

“—I should consider retirement?” he interrupted with a barked laugh. “I am, madame. That I am.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest a temporary solution, rather.”

Valjean sighed. Some of his anxiety left him. “No, that would not do. I take my responsibility as mayor very seriously. If I can no loner fulfil that role, I must step down. Since I cannot, that is what I must do.” Because even without a death penalty breathing down his neck, Valjean was not a mayor. Madeleine was, but Madeleine was gone and with him ‘Monsieur le Maire’. Whatever the future held for him, it was certainly not his chain of office.

“I have left Javert alone too long already,” he said suddenly, grabbing both water jugs by their handle and lifting them off the table. “I will take these upstairs and see if I can make him drink some.”

Madame Prost quirked an uneasy smile. “Please do that, monsieur,” she said. “I will be up shortly with the broth and a hearty lunch for you.”

Valjean merely nodded before he left. As he trudged down the hallway and up the stairs, his mind was busy compiling a letter of resignation to be sent to his deputy-mayor. With every step and every word, he expected Madeleine to protest. But for the first time in years, there was no one but himself looking over his shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: nothing in this chapter but the broth was planned. Everything else inserted itself when I wasn't looking, and so Valjean complicated my plot notes even more. Gotta love 'im!


	18. Trade Your Life for Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudo's, people! As always, I love to hear from you guys ^_^

The world was a sea of pain whirling inside him, about him. Before he had been held afloat, but not anymore. The absence of his haven sank through to his consciousness like a wrecked ship through dark waters, dragging him down with it. He reached, but where there had been strong presence before, cool yet warming, he found only emptiness now. Had he dreamt that presence? Had he only imagined the strong arms anchoring him into what may or may not have been reality? What was reality anyhow? He forced his eyes open to see, but when he did, he was blinded by light.

Javert squinted until the bright glare receded. When his eyes had adjusted, all that lay beside him was the edge of his pillow casing, blotched with small, rusty stains. Beyond that there were only the ruffled bed sheets and the terrifying emptiness he had felt before.

Valjean had gone.

A surge of panic hit him, physically pushing him up on his elbows despite the pain in every fibre of his body. His wretched lungs panting and grating, Javert craned his head to look. The room spun around him, tipping this way and that. For all he could make out, it was as empty as his bed.

“…j…jean?” he croaked, too weakly to be heard by anyone but himself. He tried again, but all that came out was a dry whimper. He waited; waited until his head swam and his arms shook with the effort of bearing his weight. Darkness rose behind his eyes, but he clenched his teeth to keep it at bay. Except he couldn’t. Not by himself…

Where was Valjean? Hadn’t he promised he would stay? Or was that a dream? Was Valjean a dream? Nothing made sense anymore. The world had cut him loose from his last lifeline and he was adrift in a vast expanse of colours and shapes. What he saw should have meaning, but that meaning was long since lost to him. White stars shot across his vision, sparkles blooming before his eyes. His arms gave way and he collapsed back on the bed. Black spots came and went with every laboured breath he took. A fleck of colour to his side invited him to grasp it, but he only touched thin air.

“…jean…?”

_Do you have the breath left for this?_

_Yes. Please…!_

Why had Valjean left him? Hadn’t he given his convict everything? Let him steal all he had to offer the man? Javert didn’t remember. Every time he almost thought he recalled hands on his skin, lips on his, the memory slipped through his fingers like fine sand.

“…j…”

_Don’t go. Don’t die… God, Valjean, I’m so sorry…_

Valjean was gone. Because of him, because of what he had done.

_You are leaving…_

_I am. I’m afraid I must._

_Yes. Arras…_

“N…!”

Javert worked himself up again, letting out a cry of pain as his muscles threatened to tear from his bones. The world simultaneously shrank and expanded and nothing stood still long enough for him to get his bearings. He shivered as cold air grazed the clammy skin of his exposed chest. Every movement took more strength than he had, but he could not let that stop him. If Valjean showed the brand on his chest to anyone… to the Court…! He could not let Valjean die. He couldn’t!

Through the oscillating colours, he saw the familiar blue of his uniform hanging on the door. Yes, that was the answer: get dressed; go to Arras. Stop Valjean from dying. The door was impossibly far away, across a lake of liquefied floorboards, but he would make it. For Valjean’s sake, he would have to.

Summoning whatever strength he had left, he rose from the bed. But halfway through the motion his legs caught and the room turned head over heals on him. He fell, hard, and for a moment he saw nothing.

He woke to a dull pain in his shoulder and a mouthful of dusty rags that made him gag. He tried to move, turn over, get up, but some unseen force clung to his legs and hips and refused to let go. With great difficulty he managed to raise his head far enough to see what it was.

If he’d had the breath to, Javert would have cried in fear at the gigantic black snake that had wrapped itself around the lower half of his body. Frozen in terror, he stared at the snake’s ugly head swaying left and right, gleaming black eyes watching him. Only by chance did he see that its scales were made of words; words that Javert knew by heart.

 _I will only let you go to Arrassss if you do your duty,_ the snake hissed, its forked tongue flitting. _Do your duty and return Valsssjean to the jail where he belongssss._

The big head came closer and closer. Javert struggled to get free, but every move cost him air he did not have. Lacking the energy to fight this losing battle, he sank back. There had been a time where he would have honoured the Law’s demand without a second thought, but not anymore.

 _Fulfil your duty, or I will dessstroy you!_ the snake threatened.

Javert let out a shaky sigh that might have been a laugh. Let this monster destroy him for what he believed in, but he would not betray Valjean again. He would not betray _himself_ again. If that meant he would die, so be it. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the hard floor, ready to be devoured.

Suddenly a brightness exploded from the snake’s head, tearing the Law to shreds of harmless words. An ethereal light expanded above him. From it came hands that freed him from his restraints, angel wings that sheltered him and a beautiful face crowned with golden hair. An angelic face that saw him without eyes; a face that was blindfolded.

Javert gasped and turned his head away from the Lady kneeling by his side. Long ago, she had saved him, that was true. Now her arms lifted him once more from the ruins of his life, but he did not look at her. Never again would he be a fool for a mistress who would abandon him as soon as save him.

 _You were never a fool to believe in me,_ the angel whispered with a voice of soothing sunrays. _I am not the cold, unyielding marble that you imagined me to be. Justice is so much more than that._ She touched his face, her hands soft to his skin. _The law of man is my tool, not my definition. That law is only as just as the man wielding it. You cannot blindly trust in the judgement of others. You know this. Trust your own instead._

Her beautiful, genuine smile broke him. His world shook, then began to crumble around him as he looked up at her, seeing her shining eyes beyond the veil.

_You strive to be just, and so I am your servant as much as you are mine._

The ceiling of the room collapsed and the walls shattered, yet he was not afraid. She stroked his face, her touch cold but pleasant.

“Javert?”

Her hand came to rest on his chest, over his heart. Despite the tremors around him, he felt the thing thrashing wildly against his ribs, demanding with every beat to be released. That black thing—

“Javert! Wake up!”

— that bathed in light as she touched it?

 _Your heart has always served me,_ his Lady said. _And it has wanted nothing but to serve you. Do not shut it out. It knows what justice is, regardless of what the words written by men tell you._

“Javert! For the love of God…”

Javert shuddered as the hand that strummed his face turned to ice. It pierced the glow of divine light like a sword cutting fabric. He bucked in protest, but his Lady held him close, smiling at him as she faded faster and faster. _See that justice is done,_ he heard her say. Then the light dissolved and she with it.

“Please, wake… You were sensible enough this morning, so you cannot be that far gone now?”

He heard the words and the voice that spoke them, both unpleasantly sharp to his senses. His body was heavy, his mind even more so. Now the light of his Lady was gone, deeper, darker colours filtered through to him, a swirling mass that almost pulled him under.

“Wake up, Javert,” Valjean’s voice commanded somewhere close by.

The tone more than the words tugged at parts of his consciousness that he could not name. He tried to reply; to call out for Valjean to guide him, but the only sound that came from his throat was a broken grunt.

“Yes, that’s it. Come on now.”

A touch, ice cold and soaking wet, stung his forehead so viciously that the colours stopped spinning. From their untangling mess rose a face framed in white, deep lines of worry creasing equally white brows.

“Val…jean?”

“Oh, thank God!” the deep voice sighed. Javert felt the cold touch move to the side of his neck as Valjean added, louder: "Can you focus for me?"

He tried, but it took a lot of effort to see the man's face as clearly as he should. However, once he managed it, the repeated bursts of cold against his skin helped him keep that focus, in his eyes and in his mind. He realised he was lying in Valjean’s arms. A heartbeat, fast but far slower than his own, pulsed against his cheek.

Valjean was alive…

Javert moaned in relief and gratitude as a cloth soaking wet with water was pressed to his mouth. He sucked what drops he could from it before it disappeared again.

“How did you get down here?” Valjean asked, bewildered. “Please don’t tell me you were trying to get up?”

"…Arras,” his parched throat grated. _Don't go to Arras!_ The sentence was forming in his head, but his mouth would not move as he wanted it to. He frowned and tried again. His lips hung open, but all that came out were uneasy puffs of air.

"You still want to go to Arras?” Valjean finished for him. “Very well, but then you'll have to get better first. And to get better, you need to drink.”

Before Javert could protest that this was not what he meant to say, the arm beneath his neck and shoulders hauled him upright, propping him up against Valjean’s broad torso when he lacked the strength to sit. A glass of water drifted into his field of vision. He regarded it with a mix of trepidation and desperation, but desperation quickly won out and he raised both shaking hands to grasp it. He was trembling too much to get a proper hold, but Valjean helped him bring the glass to his chapped lips. He couldn't suppress a shiver as the cool water grazed his gullet, but he welcomed both the cold and the moisture.

Too quickly the glass was empty; the water dissipated in the burning desert sand that was his body. The glass disappeared. Valjean moved and the glass came back, again full of water. This time Javert was not so eager to drink. What was the point, if it didn’t quench his thirst? He let his head sag, but Valjean’s hand in his neck forced him to face the glass.

"Come, you need to drink," Valjean insisted, gently pressing the edge of the glass against Javert's lips.

"…nn…" Javert closed his eyes in frustration. Even a simple 'no' was too difficult to pronounce. Even if it did no other good, at least water might help him speak his mind. At Valjean’s renewed attempt to make him drink, he complied. Some of the moisture lingered on this tongue, finally detaching it from the roof of his mouth. Still it took two more tries to shape his thoughts into words.

“…don’t… go.”

Was that weak sound truly his voice? It had to be, because a breath carrying the words 'I won’t' ruffled his hair in response. For a long moment Javert felt safer than he should.

“You cannot stay on the floor like this,” said Valjean. “I will help you into the fauteuil.”

Fauteuil? Javert made an uncoordinated gesture that he hoped came off as dismissive. “…sleep,” he muttered, not bothering to keep his eyes open.

“Later. You must eat first.”

Javert’s stomach roiled. The last thing he wanted was to eat, or even think of consuming anything but water. He was in enough pain already. His resentment must have shown, because when he tried to turn away, Valjean wouldn't let him.

“You need to eat, Javert,” he said that a tone that he might use on a petulant child. “You will not get better if you don't."

Javert would have barked a sarcastic laugh if he’d have the strength. He did not. He did not, because he was done for, and he knew it. That Valjean refused to accept that was not surprising, but regrettable all the same. He wanted to tell the man so, but Valjean’s attention was on the door. Without the focal point of the cold compresses it was difficult to stay awake, but Javert could make out enough through the haze to see that someone else had come in. Someone carrying a tray.

“There we are, mons— What happened?!”

Focusing his ears was less exhausting that working out the dancing image that was his eyesight, so Javert let his eyes slit shut as he listened to the conversation taking place over his head.

“I couldn’t say,” Valjean’s voice rumbled. “He is only semi-conscious, but it seems he tried to get out of bed.”

Someone scoffed. Off to the side, Javert heard the noise of items being moved across a surface. A salty smell filled his nostrils.

“It makes for a perfect opportunity to change the bed, but I sincerely recommend you do not leave him alone again, monsieur.”

Valjean huffed. “I did not intent to.”

More clatter. “The plate is for you, monsieur, and I have put the inspector's broth in a mug. I added some cold water to it, so he won’t burn himself.”

In Valjean’s arms, Javert made to protest. He didn't get beyond a strained but otherwise crystal clear ‘no’. Apparently, that was the wrong answer.

With an angry grunt, Valjean bundled the tangled covers tighter around Javert and lifted him bodily. Before Javert realised what was going on, he found himself in an upright position. He blinked in astonishment. It took a few seconds before he realised that he was no longer on the floor, but sitting in the fauteuil beside the bed, as Valjean had said he should.

Sitting up did clear his mind for some reason, but it also brought on vertigo. Wrapped up in the blankets as he was, he could not steady himself when he began to pitch forward. Valjean grabbed his shoulder and gently pushed him against the back of the chair.

"Now, you must eat," the older man said sternly.

“No use…,” Javert sighed, “…can't keep it down.” His mouth worked much better now it didn't have to fight gravity. Not that making his protests heard helped, because as soon as he had spoken, Valjean grabbed the big mug from the bedside table and held it out to him.

"I know your stomach has been upset, but this broth is barely more than water. If you can keep down water - and we both know you can - then your stomach can handle this, too. Come, drink it.”

Javert completely ignored the mug and attempted to glare at Valjean instead. “…vertigo… It makes me nauseous…”

“I know,” said Valjean, his determination momentarily overruled by compassion. “But you must try anyway.”

“…why?” He took a deep breath, wincing when it hurt. “…I’m not going… to last much longer…”

The agony that etched itself on Valjean’s face triggered memories of seeing 24601 tied to the rack, receiving lash after lash from Javert’s whip. Valjean had been in pain then, but that look was nothing compared to this.

“You _will_ eat," Valjean bit. Holding the mug in pace, he asked Madame Prost to hand him the cold rag. Javert hissed when the cloth touched his neck, clearing his mind. “Listen to me; I will not let you give up. Do you hear me? You can still fight this.”

Javert shivered for more than cold alone. Did he want to fight? Yes, to save Valjean. But beyond that? He had lost everything he held dear… Or had he? His Lady had not forsaken him after all. She had returned, brighter than before; urged him to seek justice, to trust his own judgement…

“It all comes down to willpower, Javert, and that is something we both know you have plenty of. Please, _use_ it!” Kneeling before him, Valjean offered the mug of broth as if it were the Cup of Life. “Drink,” Valjean begged of him. “Please. You need it.”

His own judgement? Javert sighed as he regarded Valjean. Really, this man could order him to the end of the world and he would obey.

“…I would,” he rasped eventually, “but you pinned my hands in the blankets…”

A tension he had not been aware of suddenly shattered. Valjean's smiled as he freed Javert’s hands from the bundle of sheets, and the woman who had been watching them in silence - Javert only now recognised her – broke her stance and went about her business.

Valjean helped him drink from the heavy mug, persistent when Javert did not hide his disgust. The warm broth tasted the way that the liquid’s undetermined shade of brown suggested it would. Yet with every mouthful he swallowed, Valjean's face would light up a bit more. It was a curious thing that he did not tire of seeing. And so he drank.

While he sipped at the mug, he glanced over to where Madame Prost pulled the sodden sheets off the bed. Left and right, colourful lengths of cloth escaped the bed frame. Javert watched them come away, but had no idea what they could mean.

“I will hang those cravats on the washstand, monsieur,” Madame Prost announced after gathering the cloths. “And I found this.” She passed Valjean a strip of black satin.

“Ah, yes. I wondered where that had disappeared to.”

Javert tried to follow Valjean getting up and walking around the back of the chair, but the vertigo forced him to continue staring at the mug in his lap instead. “Don’t mind me,” he heard Valjean say somewhere behind him. “I really ought to wash and brush your hair first, but for now this will do."

The tugging at his hair and scalp was really very gentle, but nevertheless painful to his already aching head. Still it felt good when the long strands were bound back in their usual queue. It made him feel more like himself; more as if he wasn’t completely lost…

Valjean asked something when he reappeared, but Javert did not hear. The world retreated from him and he was sinking through the cushions of the fauteuil. The light pressure of the mug against his fingertips faded as he fell. Then a big hand pressed against his forehead and shards of ice shot across his face.

“Stay with me,” Valjean said. “Stay awake. When the mug is empty and the bed is made, then you can sleep again.”

Javert latched onto the words and dragged himself back to his mauled body. To attach himself to reality, he made to feel the weight of the mug, but the damn thing only rose when Valjean lifted it for him. Javert drank from it, mind numb but for the little lights shining in those green eyes. Soon the broth was all gone. The taste in his mouth was awful, but Valjean's pleased expression as he put the mug away more than made up for that. Javert’s breath hitched for a moment. It would be such a waste to see those lights die…

“…are you still going to Arras?” he asked before he would lose the presence of mind to.

Valjean stilled. Without a word, he soaked the rag again, wrung it and began to wipe it across Javert’s face and neck with over-intent dedication.

“Va—?” Javert began, but the cloth immediately swiped over his mouth, silencing him. Every time he tried to speak again, Valjean stopped him just as swiftly.

“The bed is ready, monsieur,” Madame Prost announced. “Or the sheets are. You only need to tuck the blankets under the mattress. Do you wish me to heat water for the wash basin?”

“That sponge bath can wait, madame,” said Valjean. “I believe lunch has been arduous enough.”

Javert saw her studying him. “Right you are, monsieur. But do give him this.” She hung something that resembled a shirt over the armrest of the fauteuil. Then she collected the mug and put it on the tray next to the plate. “Next time, monsieur, do give the proper example and eat your own lunch?”

Valjean smiled sheepishly, watching in silence as she took her leave. The moment the door closed, his expression fell. “She doesn't know,” he said. “To her I'm still Madeleine.”

Ah, so that was it. “…are you?”

“No. There is no more Monsieur Madeleine.”

Javert started. Madeleine was what tied Valjean to this town, to this life. Without him… “So you _will_ … you _will_ go to Arras… after all?” Twisting colours faded his senses again and he made a wild grab for the wet rag in Valjean's hand. He missed, but Valjean got the hint and continue to wipe Javert’s face with careful strokes, cooling him.

“If I have no reason to stay, then yes, I will speak with the judges. I cannot stop the trial anymore, but I can convince them to review the sentence.”

Javert gritted his teeth, leaning into the cold to keep his wits about him. “…you are so damn adamant,” he growled, panting. “…what keeps you… from going?”

“You.”

Apparently the cold compress wasn’t enough. “…w—what…?”

Valjean smiled wearily. “I was about to leave for Arras last night, but in the end, I stayed for you.”

For the first time in his life, Javert was happy to have been at the receiving end of another man's pity. He took as deep breath as he dared and cupped Valjean's face with trembling fingers, fearing that is eyes alone would not be enough to grab the man's attention. “….you mustn’t go,” he said at the most deliberate tone of voice he could manage. “You mustn’t, Valjean… It’s _not_ just.”

“Not just?” 

Javert sought to pull the right words from his swimming head. “It’d be lawful, yes…. but _wrong_ … ”

Green eyes searched his. “Then, you do not want me to set the record straight? See that justice is done?”

“...If it comes at the cost of your life…” He gasped rapidly, trying to stay ahead of an oncoming coughing fit. “…then it’s _not_ justice!” He lost the race with himself and a hollow, wet cough tore through his chest. “Y’hear… ljean?”

The only reply he got were Valjean's arms wrapping around him, keeping him from falling when his wreaking body slid off the seat as he coughed again and again in a futile attempt to clear his lungs. It hurt immensely, but not nearly as much as seeing Valjean give himself up in name of a justice that wasn't just.

“…promise me,” he grated when he had the air to.

Valjean pulled him closer. “You asked that of me before,” he whispered. “You were delirious then…”

The implication was all too obvious to Javert, even in his hazy state. He wanted to see his convict, but the coughing fit left him dizzy and short of breath. “…you, executed… it’s not just.” He shivered. “Please, don’t do it… There… there might still be another way…”

The calloused palm that made him look up felt cool to his burning cheek. “I make myself no more illusions than you, Javert. It takes sacrifices to see justice, _true_ justice, come to pass.”

True justice… Javert had seen true justice. Felt it. Embraced it.

_I am your servant as much as you are mine._

He dug his fingers in Valjean’s shirt. “Sacrifice… is a last resort,” he growled. “…it’s not the only way…”

“There is no time to try anything else. I wish there was, but—“

“Don’t go! ...whatever you do, don’t go to… to Arras.”

“Then give me a reason to stay.”

Puzzled, Javert gazed at Valjean. “…I don’t understand?”

Valjean gently tucked Javert’s head in the crook of his neck. “Last night, I stayed because you cried for me; because you needed me. But if you give up now, if you _die_ …” He, too, shivered. “I cannot be Madeleine anymore. This town has no more use of me. And if you are gone, too, why shouldn’t I surrender to the law and save at least one innocent life?”

Another bolt of ice took hold of Javert, but it was neither the cold of a rising fever nor the soothing cool of Valjean’s compresses. This was pure, unadulterated dread.

“If I die… you die…?”

“In a way.”

“So you… you want me to buy your life… with mine?”

Valjean’s grip tightened. “I would not ask that of you. But if you live, then I…” He sighed. “Then I will not give myself up.”

Javert buried himself in Valjean’s shoulder. “…promise?”

Lips brushed to top of his head. “Yes,” Valjean murmured. “I promise.”

The cold receded as quickly as it had come, leaving only the cool touch of Valjean’s embrace. To fight not for himself, but to keep others save: that was familiar territory to Javert. He had done that all his life, and against terrible odds. As a policeman, he had often cheated death to shelter others from harm. This would be no different.

For the first time in what seemed like forever the skies opened and a clear path extended before him. This was a battle he knew how to fight. It would not be easy and it would not be straightforward, but at long last he knew where he was going.

“…deal,” he whispered as the heavy darkness of oblivion closed around him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valjean shouldn't be making promises he cannot keep. And I promise to writing less erratic dialogue and less muddled narratives in the chapters to come. Javert is just really far gone and really short of breath, so please forgive him if he made excessively little sense this time ^_^.


	19. House of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mea culpa! Sorry for taking so long. Tons of reasons, all either RL- or Valjean-related, but none of them excuses.

Hours strung together one after the other, but Javert did not regain consciousness. Every hour, with religious dedication, Valjean made him drink. Javert didn’t open his eyes when drops of water, broth or milk seeped into his mouth and Valjean coaxed him until his reflexes responded and his body drank without his mind knowing it. 

The day passed Valjean by like a river flowing around a rock. He looked after Javert, wrote and sent his letter of resignation to Giscault, his deputy. He pecked at his lunch while he watched the shallow movements of Javert’s chest, read from the Bible, and napped between making Javert drink as much as possible.

It wasn’t enough. By the time the sun set, Javert began to shiver violently again. His breath came in short, ragged wheezes and he had gone unnaturally pale. Valjean did what he could with cold water and wet cloths to stave off the searing heat as the fever spiked, but not once did Javert wake from his nightmares. Further attempts to make him drink failed.

Throughout the evening, Madame Prost spoke words of encouragement. Valjean wanted to believe her, but he also saw that she had readied a clean handkerchief beside the tiny flask of chloroform. He prayed. It gave him no comfort.

He held Javert close that night, not caring that Madame Prost dozed in the fauteuil not six feet away. In the deep silence of the darkest hours, he sat with his back against the headboard and cradled his guard to his chest so he could feel every breath; feel when it hitched, or when it stopped. He muttered prayers into Javert’s hair, but failed to believe that they were heard. He had chosen to serve Javert rather than his Christian duty. What right did he have to ask God for anything now?

So Valjean put his arms around Javert’s shoulders and waited; waited for that moment when the body in his arms stilled. Several times he feared that moment had come, but then another breath followed, and another. And another. Uneasy gasps muddled together in a lulling rhythm that reminded him that life did not so easily extinguish. Valjean listened to that rhythm as the night dragged on, clinging to it until it became his whole world.

A world that would shatter if the rhythm stopped.

Suddenly Valjean started. The dying light of the lamp beside him told him time had passed. Time he could not account for. He must have fallen asleep, and asleep he would not have noticed if…! With a heart as tight as his stomach, he glanced down.

Javert’s head rested against his shoulder, the faintest wisp of warm air escaping from his lips. Relieved, Valjean kissed his brow. Javert’s skin was hot against his, but last night’s sharp burn was gone. Between the half-drawn curtains of the window, he saw a dreary light colouring the horizon. Sunrise.

“Will you drink now?” Valjean asked the insensible man in his arms. He poured a glass from the jug on the bedside table, and pressed the edge against Javert’s mouth. As before, there was no response until he carefully tilted the glass and sliver of water trickled between the chapped lips. Then they parted, admitting more of the liquid until Javert swallowed in reflex. With infinite patience and unspeakable gratitude, Valjean made him drink it all and then most of a second glass. Perhaps there was hope yet.

He leaned back, whispering a brief word of grace that Javert had lasted the night. It was no guarantee of any kind, but that glimpse of hope was all he had. Literally…

Valjean chewed the inside of his lip. In the morning light he dared to hope for a miracle, but what if that was granted? The one thing he feared more than Javert dying on him was Javert coming to his senses and remembering nothing of what had happened. Or worse, that he remembered it all and was disgusted by it. That possibility had never quite left Valjean’s mind. Javert had been half-delirious when he had consented to what they had done. What if he withdrew that consent?

At that thought, he tasted blood in his mouth. If Javert withdrew his consent, what they had shared became rape. Then Valjean would have violated the man he adored. A thief of dignity after all…

Feeling as dirty as he had on the day of his first arrest, Valjean could not stay as he was. He slid out from behind Javert and gently laid the man back on the pillow. He quickly got out of his sweat-soaked shirt and put on a fresh one. His fingers hastily did up all the buttons to beat the footsteps he heard coming up the stairs. Finished just in time, he opened the door and found Madame Prost carrying a tray with breakfast, one elbow extended for the door handle.

“Oh, thank you, monsieur,” she said with a smile as she bustled in. She put the tray on the end of the bedside table. “I did bring up some milk for the inspector, just in case.”

“He took to the water readily enough.”

“He drank? Oh, that’s good.” She let out a sigh. “That’s very good. Did he wake, too?”

Valjean shook his head.

“Well, that wasn’t to be expected, really. At least _you_ got some rest, though.”

“Not long.”

She shrugged as she placed the two jugs and the plate on her tray to the table. “A good two hours is better than nothing.”

He looked at her. “You were awake?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a nurse if I didn’t look after my patients.” The plural noun did not escape him, but he decided not to remark on it. He was too grateful for her help and for her discretion to make a point of such liberties. “Oh, and these were hand-delivered for you yesterday evening,” she added, producing two envelops from the pocket of her apron.

Valjean frowned as he took them, quickly scanning each for the sender. The first donned the seal of the mairie. “Madame, this is important!” he growled as he ripped the envelop open. “Why didn’t you tell me this had arrived when it did?”

“I did, monsieur. But then you were too anxious about the inspector and told me to put them aside. So I did that, too.”

Perhaps her annoyance at the reprimand was justified. Perhaps Madeleine might have cared, but he did not. He read the letter, finding its contents alarming but not at all unexpected.

“I am required at the mairie at ten,” he said, folding the paper again.

“This morning? But monsieur, how long will you be away?”

Valjean glanced at Javert’s sleeping form. “An hour, maybe two.” Too long, at any rate. He could tell by Madame Prost’s face that she thought so, too. “Maybe I can request them to come here and have this meeting in my study instead.”

He did not like the prospect of inviting more people into his house. He was exposed enough as it was. But what choice did he have? The last time he had left the bedroom for more than a few minutes, Javert had hurt himself trying to get up. The man was in no condition to try that again, but what if he slipped away from life instead? Valjean shuddered at the thought. “I will see what solution I can think of.”

Madame Prost nodded. “The study shall be ready in time for your meeting, monsieur.” She gave him a stern glare as she curtsied and left with the empty tray.

That was a clear opinion if ever he had heard one. But he had more to consider. After what happened yesterday, Valjean didn’t like the prospect of leaving Javert alone. On the other hand, Javert hadn’t shown any awareness of his surroundings since yesterday and might not notice if Valjean left for a few hours. The only viable alternative was to bring Giscault and the notary to his home, risking the rumour mill in the process.

He stared at Javert, weighing the respective risks of these two options. Whatever he decided, he could not stay in the room. And if Javert did get restless over his absence, it was better for both of them if his cries weren’t overheard.

That decided, Valjean turned his attention to the second envelop. It was a plain thing of unbleached paper, featuring a curt handwriting. The stiff letters did not resemble a woman’s hand, but Valjean recognised it immediately. His heart sank as he pried the envelop open. He could think of only two reasons why Sister Simplice would write to him personally, and after last month’s donation, she wouldn’t be asking him for further funding of the hospital.

“Oh, no.”

The letter was simple. So was its message. Valjean read it twice before his knees buckled and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, dear Heaven,” he muttered, tears coming to his eyes as he stared at the scribbled words. “Fantine, that poor wretched woman… She’s dead, Javert. She died yesterday. Her—her lungs…” He whimpered, recalling the blood stains on her pillow, so similar to those on Javert’s. Groping blindly, he found Javert’s hand and clasped his trembling fingers around it. A flit of movement gave him the courage to swallow his fear. Fantine was dead. Javert was not. Not yet.

“I promised her I would fetch her child for her,” he mused out loud to dispel the horror from his mind. “Her foster parents were extorting Fantine, and then tried to do the same to me when I paid their bills for her. Did you know that? I had meant to take the girl to her mother before it was too late. I’d been making plans to, that morning when you came to my office…” _and everything changed_ , he added silently.    

“It is not your fault,” he said, not sure whether he was addressing Javert or himself. “It isn’t anyone’s fault that Fantine died before I could bring the girl to her. No, you needed help more than the girl did, and poor Fantine was beyond help already. But I did promise I would look after her child and knowing what kind of people those foster parents are…”

Valjean pressed his hands to his eyes. To save the girl, he would have to go to Montfermeil. A three day journey. How could he even consider that if he had promised Javert his life in exchange for that of his guard? He barely dared to risk leaving a few hours, lest Javert thought he had broken his promise. If he left for three days, he was sure to return only to find his beloved guard dead.

He couldn’t do it. The girl, the man in Arras… His Christian duty demanded that he should save the innocents, but Javert was innocent, too. How could he save them all? He was only one man, and a flawed one at that. He had already pledged to sacrifice himself for their sakes, but even that was not enough.

He glanced at Javert. “If you die,” he said, “I can get the child, bring her to a convent and turn myself in to the court. If I wait and you live, you may not give a chance to help the girl before arresting me. And if you live and by God’s grace forgive me, I promised you I wouldn’t go to Arras and save that man…”

Crushed by this deadlock, he gripped Javert’s hand tightly. He trembled increasingly until he was shaking from head to foot. Slowly, like a mountain toppling under the weight of his duty and his promises, he hunched over.

“What should I do, Javert?” he whispered. “I cannot save you all, but what _can_ I d—?” He stopped as if struck and abruptly let go of Javert’s hand. “What have I come to?” he groaned, gripping his hair as he stumbled to his feet. “What am I doing?”

All these years ago, Monseigneur Myriel had saved an ex-con’s soul for God. He had always thought it had been Jean Valjean who had been redeemed that night, or had the benediction given rise of this thing called Madeleine? This thing that had buried Valjean… Without him, Valjean now didn’t turn to God for answers and shelter. Regardless of Myriel’s blessing and Madeleine’s habits, Valjean was still an old convict. And like the convict he was, in his fear and despair, he turned to his one certainty: his guard.

Valjean fell to his knees with a howling sigh, praying to God for forgiveness and guidance. Before he had known where to go and what to do. That duty had been complicated in its simplicity, but now his duty span more than he could encompass. Perhaps Madeleine would have known what to do, but he did not.

“Forgive me, Lord, that I cannot do the duty you laid out for me. I cannot help this town anymore, and I cannot relieve the man who bears my face. Forgive me, Fantine, that I cannot help your daughter. I will if I can, but… at this moment, I can only serve the duty that lies before me.”

On his knees, he crawled to the bed. With trembling fingers he stroked Javert’s feverish face, feeling the puffs of air against his hand. Every breath was a tiny miracle in its own right. Valjean didn’t dare to trust that it would last. God might not deign to grand him that now, but it was all he had.

His hands were still shaking as he poured a measure of milk from the smaller of the two jugs. “Come,” he said, sliding his arm under Javert’s neck to lift his head. “It’s time for breakfast.”

For the next hour, Valjean alternated between making Javert drink and forcing himself to eat his own breakfast. The latter was eased by the success of the first. Whether his efforts would make a difference, only time would tell, but Valjean was grateful to see Javert respond at least a little now. Although the man was still far from conscious, the soft sounds he would make when fed were hopeful. Madame Prost said so, too, when she came up to collect the dishes.

“Did you send a message, monsieur?”

He frowned. “What message would that be, madame?”

“That you will be receiving the gentlemen you are supposed to meet here?”

“Ah, that. No. It is better if I go the mairie. It won’t take long, as this is my decision and not a voting matter.”

She averted a glare as she nodded. “I see. Then I take it you will tie the inspector down while you are gone?”

Valjean felt the blood rush to his face. “Madame, please! There is no need to take that tone!”

“I’m only being practical, monsieur. If he wakes during your absence and falls, I’m not strong enough to lift him by myself.”

“He will not wake,” Valjean said gloomily. “He will not even notice that I’m gone.”

Madame Prost smiled wryly. “For your information, monsieur: should the inspector suffer a crisis while you are away, I will not administer the chloroform until you return.”

Valjean suppressed a shudder. He did not want to think of that, but for Javert’s sake, he had to. “If it comes to that, madame, I want you to… to use the chloroform at your discretion.”

“I cannot, monsieur.”

“Why not? You are a nurse, aren’t you?”

“I could be a doctor and it wouldn’t make a difference. An overdose of chloroform may be the humane thing to do, but I must have your absolute consent before I do it. I will not risk you having me arrested for murder if I do this for him.”

His jaw dropped. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. How could anyone—? Well, Javert would see it that way. “So you say you will not ease his suffering until I get back?”

“However long that may take,” she added with a sarcastic smile. “Of course, if you decide to hold the meeting here, that won’t need to be very long.”

“Oh. Oh!” Valjean grimaced, but pulled the letter from the deputy-mayor from his vest pocket. “You play dirty, madame,” he growled as he paced over to the dresser, where he had left the inkwell and pen the day before. “Very dirty.”

Nevertheless he turned the letter over and wrote a note on the back of the heavy stationary, saying that he apologised but that he could not make it to the appointment due to health reasons – not a lie, all things considered - and that he requested that the meeting be held at his home instead. He waved the paper until the ink was dry, shoved it back in the tattered envelop and thrust it at his housekeeper.

“Done. See to it that it gets to the mairie in time, madame.”

She took the letter and bobbed an exaggerated curtsy. “I will deliver it myself, monsieur.”

He snorted. “Do not forget your place, madame,” the last remnant of Madeleine’s habits warned.

Her face went cold. “Never, monsieur. I am constantly aware of it.”

 

* * *

It was almost ten o’clock when Valjean put on his well-worn velvet coat and straightened his cravat for the fifth time. Downstairs, Madame Prost was showing his guests to the study. Waiting for her to come up, he went over to Javert one more time.

“I won’t be far,” he said. “I’m not leaving, and if you need me, I will be right there. Madame Prost will be with you until I get back.” Javert groaned softly, as if he was having another nightmare. “I won’t be long,” he said firmly, a promise to them both.

“Your guests are in the study, monsieur,” Madame Prost announced as she came in. “They are waiting for you.”

Javert writhed under the covers. The motion was weak, but he hadn’t moved as much since losing consciousness.

“Nightmares,” Valjean surmised. “Please keep him quiet, madame. I do not want to have to explain his cries to these men.”

Valjean pulled nervously at his sleeves. He knew these people, yet he dreaded having to face them. They had always been kind to Madeleine, but would they see that he was not Madeleine? He would have to keep this meeting very short, for his own sake as much as Javert’s.

Two chairs scraped back as he entered his study. “Monsieur le Ma—oh!” That was Monsieur Giscault, his deputy. The notary, Monsieur Leblanc, gaped in silence. Valjean nodded in greeting, making a vague gesture for them to take their seats as he sat down behind his desk.

“Messieurs, I understand from your letter that you wish to discuss my decision to resign,” Valjean said, too quickly to sound at ease. “I apologise again that I could not make it to the mairie, but I appreciate your willingness to come here at such short notice.” The words were not fluent, but enough like Madeleine to keep up the appearance. Or so Valjean hoped.

Giscault cleared his throat. “Well, monsieur, your letter yesterday surprised me greatly and I wanted to understand your decision before communicating it. But seeing you now, the reason for your decision is obvious.” He looked a tad distraught. “I must admit that I find it hard to believe you are the same man I saw only days ago!”

Valjean quirked a fake smile that didn’t last. Tired and inexplicably white-haired, he must look as if he had aged twenty years in two days. He certainly felt like he had.

“You are right, monsieur. I am not the man I was a few days ago.” He paused for a moment when he thought he heard something. If he had, it had stopped. He looked back at the men, then at his hands. “There have been significant changes in my private life,” he said truthfully. “They have taken their toll, as you can see.”

“They certainly have,” Giscault said. “Monsieur, may I be so bold to ask what could have caused such a drastic change?”

Valjean looked away. How could he answer that? Madeleine had known the art of speaking without saying anything, but Valjean’s jaw wired shut for fear of saying too much. Silence, however, proved to be an answer in itself and Giscault hastened to apologise for his impertinence.

“There is little I can tell you, messieurs,” Valjean said, drawing on the memories of Madeleine. “It is a private matter. A complex one, unfortunately.”

Monsieur Leblanc straightened the glasses on his nose. “You wrote in your letter that this matter interferes with your duties as mayor,” he said. “You expect this interference to be permanent?”

A faint sound made Valjean leap to his feet. The men didn’t seem to have heard it, and he would have it stay that way. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He paced out of the room and up the stairs, panting slightly as he burst into the bedroom.

In the fauteuil, Madame Prost looked up from her needlework. “Monsieur?”

“I thought I heard…” He trailed off when he saw that Javert lay still despite the pained look on his face. “Apparently not.”

Madame Prost smiled kindly. “See to your guests, monsieur. If anything changes here, I will come and get you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He closed the door gently and went back to the study. He heard Giscault and Leblanc talk as he approached, only to cause a sudden silence with his return. He tried not to think of what that meant.

“My apologies. Monsieur Leblanc, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember what you were asking.”

The notary cast a brief glance at Giscault. “My question, Monsieur le Maire, was whether you truly expect that you will not be able to perform your function as mayor at any moment in future.”

Valjean stared at him. “The decision to resign was not an easy one. When I accepted this position, it was with the intention to serve this town for as long as was granted to me.” He closed his eyes for a moment, grateful that Madeleine’s second nature was not entirely lost to him. “This… situation I am in; as I said, it is complicated. I have no idea if and when it may be resolved. It would not be fair to keep the town and its people waiting until then. I would much rather see them thrive under Monsieur Giscault’s leadership than whither under what is left of mine.”

At this, Giscault shifted in his seat. “Monsieur le Maire – Monsieur _Madeleine_ ,” he corrected himself, “I understand that your current situation is very stressful. But are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do? If your situation resolves itself, however unlikely that may seem at the moment, will you not regret this decision?”

Valjean looked at the man. He was a few years younger, hard-working but not as dedicated to his duty as Madeleine was. Ah, but that was an unfair comparison, Valjean realised. Giscault had a family and a social life to consider. Madeleine’s sole purpose had been his duty, but now Valjean experienced first hand how different duties could collide, forcing his dedication for one to come at the expense of the others.

“I am certain, Giscault. If I can, if God permits me,” – _if Javert permits me_ – “I will continue to help the people of this town in other ways. No, the chain of office is yours, monsieur.”

Giscault nodded in silence, averting his eyes. His expression was one of concentration and the anxiety of a new challenge. A lesser man would have been gleeful at this unexpected promotion, but Madeleine had done well when he selected his staff. 

“Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Valjean inquired.

The men look at each other. There were open issues, that he knew, but he could see their silent agreement not to bring them up now. Thank God.

“No, this will be all for now, monsieur,” the notary began, “I will draw up the official documents and have them ready this afternoon. You will not be leaving this house for some time, I understand?”

“Not for some days, no.”

“Then I will come later today, so you can sign them in my presence and make your decision final.”

Leblanc and Giscault rose, offering their hands in farewell. “Monsieur, should you reconsider your decision, please remember that nothing is final until you have signed that document,” Giscault said as they parted. Valjean only gave him a faint smile in reply. He knew Giscault. The man would do just fine in his new job.

But as the men made to leave, Valjean thought of an other issue. “Monsieur Leblanc, a moment of your time, please? I have a private question to ask you.”

For prudence’ sake, Giscault took his leave. Valjean knew he would be waiting outside, though, but that mattered little. Everyone would find out about all this soon enough.

“What can I do for you, monsieur?” asked Leblanc as they hung back in the vestibule.

“I have no idea how my situation will develop,” Valjean said. “If worst comes to worst, I will need to sign over the ownership of my factory. Is it much work to draft the necessary documents, as well as a power of attorney for you to act in my stead?”

“A power of attorney?”

“Yes. I may not need to hand over the factory at all, but if I do, there is a chance I will not be available to sign in person.”

Now the notary paled. “Monsieur, I cannot presume to know your situation and I do not mean to offend you, but I am obliged to inform you that a power of attorney ends if the one who gave it is, well, deceased.”

Valjean nodded slowly. “I…I hope it will not come to that,” he said at last, “but thank you for alerting me that timing is of the essence. Could you have these documents ready by this afternoon, too?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, monsieur. Do you know who the receiving party or parties will be?”

He hadn’t thought that far. “Can I sign it over to you, with the instructions to seek out a suitable party in time?”

Leblanc gave him an undecided look. “Not as a transfer of ownership, but there are other ways to make such an arrangement, if that is what you want.”

“It is. I do not have time to find a suitable new owner myself.”

“Then I will allot some extra time to my visit this afternoon, so we can discuss the possibilities.”

“I will not have much time to spare you,” Valjean protested. “I… tire quickly, you must understand.” Lying did not come easy to him, but Leblanc seemed to accept it.

“I meant to propose drafting a last will and testament for you, monsieur. If you are able to give some consideration to what you might want to include, you can tell me this afternoon and I will work with that.”

Valjean drew a shaky breath. “I will… think about that. As I said, all this may not be necessary after all, but in the end, it is better to be prepared.”

The ruse of Madeleine was faltering. Kindly but insistently, he saw the notary out. From the threshold, he spared a polite nod for Giscault, who had indeed been waiting under a nearby tree. He watched the two men meet up and walk away together. No doubt they would have enough to discuss, Valjean thought grimly.

He was about to shut the front door when a voice carried through the crisp winter air: “Monsieur le Maire! A moment please!” A man in uniform and a long coat came jogging across the street towards him. He halted and bowed in formal greeting, huffing after his short run. At second glance, Valjean recognised him as the senior clerk he had spoken to at the police station.

“I am sorry to trespass on your time, Monsieur le Maire, but may I ask you something?”

Valjean gestured him inside, not bothering to correct him on the title. “It is too cold to talk out there,” he said, closing the door. “What can I help you with, sergeant?”

The man looked uneasy, as if he didn’t know what to do with the mayor’s attention now that he had it. “Forgive me, monsieur, but I was wondering, since you were the one who convinced Inspector Javert to go home when he fell ill…”

“Yes?”

“…do you happen to know where he _is_?”

Valjean tensed. He should have expected this at some point. The town’s chief of police could not vanish for three days without someone asking questions. He gave the sergeant a blank stare as he tried to work out an answer.

“You see, I went to his apartment,” the man continued nervously, “and the landlady said she hadn’t seen anyone in days, except for a woman who had a key and came to collect some items. I thought the woman might be a nurse, so checked at the hospital. But he isn’t there, either.”

Valjean licked his lips. “Did your commanding officer send you?”

“The lieutenant? No, monsieur. He argued that the inspector is a bit eccentric and will turn up in his own time.” The man made a face. “You _saw_ the inspector, Monsieur le Maire. He was about ready to drop when he left. Now he’s nowhere to be found, and I will not wait until he shows up as a victim in one of our reports!”

The outburst was frayed with genuine worry. Valjean cherished that. It was good to know that Javert had someone like had he’d had Giscault. He would not have told another officer, but the sergeant’s concern was genuine and he did not like to see it endure. Riding the remnants of Madeleine’s diplomacy, he searched for the right words.

“All I can tell you is that the inspector is in no condition to resume work any time soon, if ever.”

The sergeant straightened in shock. “What?! Is he injured?”

“Not in police terms.” Hearing how that might be misinterpreted as a euphemism for insanity, he added: “That day at the station, Inspector Javert was suffering from something more severe than influenza.”

The man’s face fell. “I—I see. But he is alive then, isn’t he?”

“For now…” Valjean sighed gravely. His hands were beginning to shake, and he put them in his pockets to hide it. “Word will be send to the station if… that changes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I understand, monsieur. Thank you for your help.” He tentatively turned to the door, but then stopped. “I will have to inform the lieutenant, of course.”

“Do what you must, monsieur. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m sure the inspector wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The sergeant quirked his lips, bowed in greeting and left, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

Alone and unwatched at last, Valjean felt the tremor from his hands rise through his arms and down his body. He had said nothing of consequence, of that he was certain. Not to Giscault, not to Leblanc and not to that police sergeant. He had said nothing to incriminate himself.

But all the same, the world that Madeleine had so carefully constructed was unravelling like a badly knitted scarf. Leblanc obviously assumed Madeleine was dying of something. Perhaps people had seen Dr Renoir visiting his house and had made the same assumption that Madame Prost had initially made. But that sergeant might wonder why Madeleine would know about Javert’s condition if even the hospital did not know. It would be all too easy to draw the only possible conclusion; the right conclusion. And if that got out along with the rumours of his stressed situation, his resignation and the uniform turning up at his washer woman and…

“Monsieur?”

His head snapped up of its own accord. At the top of the stairs stood Madame Prost. “Monsieur, have the gentlemen left?”

“What is wrong?” he replied, alarm driving his shaking legs to run up the stairs.

“The inspector, monsieur,” she said as he strode past her. “I don’t believe he is going into a crisis, but I can’t get through to him or quiet him.”

Valjean hurried into the bedroom. Javert didn’t have the strength left to be tossing, but he appeared to be in pain; his breathing too fast and too shallow. When Valjean sat down beside him, he tried in vain to turn away.

“No, don’t,” Valjean hushed, keeping his voice low to hide that he was just as scared as Javert seemed to be. He cupped one hand on Javert’s shoulder, putting the other to the man’s forehead. He did not need to confirm the raging fever, but he had noticed that this particular touch had a calming effect on Javert. Perhaps the sensation was a memory or a fantasy, or maybe it gave an instinctive sense of safety. How or why Valjean couldn’t say, but it helped: under his hand, Javert sank back in the pillow, his breathing gradually slowing down.

“Better now?” Valjean whispered. Apparently it was, because Javert did not react when Valjean lifted his hands. For a time, he continued to stare at Javert’s still face, barely noticing when slender fingers gently tugged his coat off his arms and draped a plaid over his shoulder instead.

“You hardly slept in days,” Madame Prost said softly. “Find what rest you can, monsieur. I will look after you both.”

Valjean did not reply, nor did he look up when she announced that she would fetch from more milk. He just watched his guard sleep, finding strength in that sight as thousands of thoughts milled through his head. The girl, the man in Arras, the stories going around town, Javert dying, Javert surviving but leaving him, denouncing him all over again…

“It’s all coming apart,” he murmured in the silence. “It’s slipping through my fingers and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

The loneliness choked him. Even newly released from the bagne, he had not felt this unhinged. Folding his hands, he tried again to pray to God for deliverance. Halfway through his prayer, he let his hands drop. Madeleine had felt safe in God’s hands; Jean Valjean did not. How could he, if it was God who was taking away the only safety he had ever known? Skewed as it was, Javert’s presence made the convict in him feel sheltered. Let Madeleine’s world fall apart. As long as he could be with his guard, Valjean could take it. Without him…

 “If you die,” he breathed, “please, take me with you…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They so love being dramatic. I promise things will get better from here. And slightly more smutty, too, if Javert feels up to it ;)
> 
> Also, I'm looking for a new quote for the story summary that covers a bit more of the contents than the present one. I sincerely welcome suggestions!


	20. Hell and High Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's something new: for the first time since Chapter 1, Javert is more than reasonably sane. More so than he might realistically be, but this *is* Javert we're talking about. Anyone else wouldn't have survived this stint in the first place. 
> 
> Thanks to esteven for beta-ing when I couldn't see straight myself. Update info at the bottom.

Like an endless ocean, the darkness moved in waves. Aware and at the same time oblivious of everything and nothing, he rose and fell with those waves. At the top of the crest he would catch a glimpse of light, a voice, a touch. At the top of the crest his body would remember what to do when water, warm or cold, would trickle into him. His body would drink and swallow at the soft encouragement of a voice resonating with his soul. Then the wave would break when he would plunge into the dark valley, where light was non-existent and consciousness but a dream.

The darkness was comforting. More than once he allowed himself to fall beyond the valleys; sink further, deeper, never to surface again. It was so calm down there, so peaceful. He had never known peace in his life. Every single day had been a struggle to do his duty; to survive and fight the currents dragging him down, back to the gutter he was born in. It was so easy to give up now and let the darkness consume him. He let it come, but when he did, another wave picked him up and carried him to hear words that this voice whispered to him, feeding him body and soul.

Countless times he rose and fell, rose and fell. Sometimes, on the slopes of the waves, the darkness would be saturated with memories, pictures, wisps of words and promises. One image in particular returned and returned. Waves of darkness might role between this view and the next, but it was always the same: shining green eyes that smiled at him. When he saw them, a deep voice would speak words that sounded familiar. He felt he should heed them, as they always brought on another wave to carry him up, but then peace beckoned and he let himself fall again.

Somewhere in that endless darkness, a tiny light sputtered to life beside him. Impossible as that was it drew his attention. Drifting on his back in the inky expanse, he raised a hand through the water to touch it. By the light’s faint glow, he saw the liquid running between his fingers. It danced over his skin, traces left not by droplets or bubbles, but tiny letters...

He scoffed and let his hand drop away. He knew now what the source of that pinprick was, but unlike before, it gave him no comfort or guidance. He turned away, surrendering to the darkness around him.

The light did not die. It bobbed along with him, a constant reminder that it was his duty to find those three little letters and follow their lead. He did not. They would deliver him from this darkness, as they had before. Of that he had no doubt. But at what cost? Doing his duty had hurled him into this abyss in the first place. To follow this light now was like trusting the Devil to lead him from Hell. So he lay back and drifted with the currents.

A wave caught and lifted him. Fluid trickled between his lips. He swallowed **.** Beside him, the tiny light flickered wildly. Unable to ignore it, he watched as it rose from the water’s surface and hovered over him. It was bigger now, too big to consist of only the three letters that spelled ‘loi’. He squinted against its brightness, and gasped.

‘Justice’ _._

Justice…

By its light, he recognised where he was. And who he was.

The ocean grew more tumultuous as memories flashed before his eyes, drowning out everything else: his duty, his heart, his hopes and regrets. What he had done, what he had to see done, it all thundered through him as the waves around him rose higher and higher. In the growing storm, the light of justice continued to shine like a beacon. Every time it moved away from him, Javert had to fight the rising water to follow it. And he did follow. This was not the hollow cold of rules and regulations, but a warm light that was everything that the little boy inside him had longed for.

Justice lit his way, gave him purpose. Despite the currents pulling at him stronger than before, he found he could swim further and faster than when lethargy had kept him prostrate. Waves crashed over him, but he resurfaced time and again. No longer a subject to the ocean’s unfathomable will, he followed where his beacon lead him.  

Until it hovered in place, casting its light on a shape in the dark water. He swam closer, battling the high waves that would push him away from… a man! The light shone down on a face, black water splashing over white hair.

_Valjean!_

A tall wave leapt and pounced on Valjean like a tiger claiming its prey, pushing the man’s prone form below the water. Javert summoned the light to him with nothing but a thought. It obeyed, lighting his way as he dove after Valjean. Despite the strong currents, the ocean was no more of a hindrance to him below as it was above. With unexpected ease, as if he was born to these waters, he caught Valjean’s sinking body before the darkness could pull him down to its depths.

When they broke the surface, the storm had reached its peak. Javert held Valjean’s body close to him. Little black letters pearled down the man’s face in thin phrases, leaving traces of ‘repeat offender’ and ‘death penalty’. He clutched the motionless body even tighter.

_Never!_

An ominous roar deafened him. Javert looked up, seeing an ink black wall rise before them. His vow had invoked it,he knew, but he did not waver as the ocean of the law threatened to drown them both. The enormous wave towered over them, cresting. Sheltering Valjean from the inevitable onslaught, Javert gazed at it. He did not fear it, or what it represented. Not anymore.

Then the mountain of water collapsed on top of them and the world ended…

 

…only to make way for another.

Like a shipwrecked man washed up on an unknown shore, Javert found himself in a world that was so familiar as to be alien. A dull ache enveloped his whole being. He was surrounded by colours and shapes that he felt his mind had touched before and he should know their meaning. In this moment, though, it was all new to him.

As more of his awareness surfaced, it began to piece him together. For the first time in forever he felt his body, his extremities, the touch of fabric against his skin, the inertia of his body. He tried to move, but it cost him great effort to relocate his body parts and rediscover how they operated. Only in third or forth instance did he succeed.

He realised that his eyes had been open for some time now. Focussing, like moving, took time to relearn, but when he did, the world assembled before him in crisp and sharp lines. It felt exceedingly real. A second thought told him how weird that was, and a third questioned that in return: hadn’t the world always been real?

No, it hadn’t.

Javert gasped as his memory brought up the last pieces of the puzzle. The rush of air into his lungs made him cough. It stung, but not as much as it had, once, faraway. More air, more coughing. A touch on his shoulder.  “Easy, easy now," a nearby voice blurted. His chest heaved again and again. Strong fingers gently squeezed the muscles of his shoulder. Javert glanced up, blinking at the surprising clarity of his vision as he followed the hand to an arm, and the arm to a face.

The face of Jean Valjean, void of scrawled death sentences and very much alive.

"Javert? Are you awake?"

 Javert stared, dumbfounded. He had never seen Valjean this clearly. Madeleine, yes, but he only remembered Valjean with the vagueness of a vision that isn't sure of itself. Yet this man sitting on the edge of the bed was not Madeleine, but nevertheless clear as daylight on a frosty morning. As was the look of pure anxiety on his face.

“God, Javert, say something!”

He meant to say exactly that – ‘something’ - but his tongue was as heavy with paralysis as the rest of his body and what his throat did produce couldn't even be called a grunt. The fingers on his shoulder moved down to his arm and squeezed again.

“Do you even see me? Hear me?” Valjean whispered with a worried look to his eyes.

Javert arched a brow, or at least that was what he meant to do. When Valjean’s expression became more harrowed for the apparent lack of response, Javert realised he’d have to come up with something better. So he forced himself to swallow and test the various muscles of his mouth and throat until he remembered how to work them.

“I will…” His dry throat made him cough. “I will… if you speak up.”

Valjean’s face lit up. “Then—you are awake?”

“If not… this is a damn… realistic dream,” Javert grunted.

The fingers around his arm dug into his flesh, drawing a hiss from him. He made to snap at Valjean to let go, but stopped short when he saw that the older man had covered his face with his other hand. For a moment, neither of them made a sound. Then the grip on Javert’s arm relaxed again and Valjean sat up, putting on a practised smile.

“You should drink,” he said, pouring a glass of something from a teapot on the bedside table. “Please, allow me, inspector?”

The formality seemed forced, but Javert let it slide as Valjean’s hand cupped his neck and lifted his head to drink a yellowish liquid that he hoped was cold herbal tea. It was, and it contained enough sugar to leave a smoothing coat from his teeth to his stomach. The sweetness was not at all to his taste, but it did ease the rawness of his throat.

When Valjean gently lowered him back on the pillow, Javert studied the man’s features. He revelled in the little details that he had never noticed when Valjean was still hidden behind Madeleine: the fine wrinkles; the furrows delving into his beard; thinlips. The difference was subtle but evident if you knew what to look for. Madeleine was so neutral as to be made of glass, but Valjean was a man of flesh and blood. Javert swallowed, remembering that he had seen that blood, felt that flesh…

He pushed the thought away to take note of other, more concerning details, like the man’s pasty complexion and the dark circles under his eyes. “You look like you… haven’t slept in days,” he said, his voice hoarse like gravel.

The uneven smile faltered, then flitted back in place. “Do not concern yourself with me, inspector. You need all your strength to get better.”

‘Better’… It was true that he felt like a ragdoll that had lost its stuffing. The occasional sting behind his ribs confirmed his recollection of how he had become so weak.

“I slept,” Javert concluded. “You did not.” He waited for Valjean to contest this, but a nervous twitch in the fake smile was all he got. “How long?”

Valjean pursed his lips. “Well, you were unconscious more than asleep, really.”

That would explain why he felt as if he had been run over by a cart. “How long?” he asked again.

“Longer than I—longer than you should have been.”

“How _long_ , Valjean?”

The man stiffened at the sound of his own name. Then he sagged, smile disappearing from his lips without returning. Javert saw his hands were shaking.

 “… Five days,” Valjean said eventually.

 “Five…!” Javert's eyes flew open as he tried to push himself up. He failed when Valjean pinned him down. “Five days?”

Valjean nodded. “The first two you were delirious, the last three days you hanging on by a thread.” An uneasy expression stole over his face. “Do you—do you remember anything?” he asked with the faintest tremor.

Javert did. And now he put effort into it, he remembered even more. “Not everything I recall could be real,” he said. “After all, Toulon is long ago and far away…” His voice trailed off at the memory of restraints on his ankles and wrists; of being tied down in the courtyard of the bagne; of Valjean’s cold, soothing hands ghosting over his heated skin. He swallowed hard as other, more realistic images pressed for his attention: recollection of cool lips on his, of Valjean devouring first his mouth and then filling the rest of him. But for every memory he knew to be real, how likely was it that this outrageous thing had happened, too? He had dreamed of Valjean’s strength possessing him so often, it was hard to tell whether this image was another dream, or an actual memory.

“I seem to recall a woman saying that everything I remembered was nothing but a fever dream,” he added at last, glancing at Valjean from the corner of his eye.

If Valjean had looked crestfallen before, his face was marred with pain now.

“That is not unlikely, inspector,” he said with difficulty. “You suffered terrible nightmares, even these past few days. And the few moments when you did seem awake, you were raving. Only last night the fever subsided enough to make me hope the worst might be over.”

Javert frowned. If the overall misery in his limbs, the alternating bursts of hot and cold coursing through him and the sheen of perspiration that glued his hair and his nightshirt to his skin were considered an improvement, he surmised that ‘the worst’ must have been very bad indeed. Bad enough to distress a steady man like… “…Valjean?”

The shudder was less obvious this time. “Yes, inspector?”

“This is your private bedroom, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” 

 Javert almost forgot what he was going to say when he saw how Valjean sat beside him: hands in his lap, head bowed. To anyone not familiar with submissive convicts, he might look as if he was praying. But Javert knew better.

“If you are so scared of me,” he said, “you could have run. Why didn’t you?”

“You asked me that before, inspector.” A faint smile came and went, but the big man kept his gaze locked on his own fingers. “I had no proper answer for you then, either.”

Unbidden, Javert recalled a fierce, hungry kiss; Valjean’s hands on his face, tongue plundering his mouth. The raw power of it had robbed him of his strength and pushed him to oblivion. The convict overpowering his guard… Javert licked his dry lips.

“By nature, convicts either run from cops or kill them. You did neither. Why?”

Javert froze in alarm when Valjean’s eyes suddenly snapped up at him, bright and ablaze with a fire that could only be expressed in numbers.

“I may be a thief, but I’m not a murderer!” the man barked. “How could I run? You were at death’s door! More than once I feared you would die in my—!” His outrage ceased as quickly as it had started. He averted his gaze again, shoulders slumping as 24601 became Jean Valjean once more. “You must hate me for the things I have done, inspector, and I do not blame you if you do. But please know that I took no pleasure in watching you die.”

The silence rang heavy, hinting that a dream may not have been a dream at all.

“I believe you,” Javert said, smirking faintly when Valjean looked up in surprise. “The cold bath, the compresses. You even called a doctor… and a nurse.” He paused to breathe. “And someone fed me liquids while I slept too long.”

Valjean’s face pinked. “Anyone would have done the same, I’m sure.”

“No, they wouldn’t. You knew I had recognised you, and still you brought me – your enemy - into your house. Into your _bed_ , even.”

The words were as innocent as they were laden. His aching body cramping further still, he watched carefully for Valjean’s reaction. Which was to turn away when a blush crept up under his beard.

“You were never my enemy, Javert,” said Valjean softly. “Not in Toulon and not here in Montreuil. But I did break the law. Evaded it.” He shook his head. “Not anymore. I am your prisoner, inspector.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Javert scoffed, the last word breaking on a cough. He tensed, but then let himself sink back in the pillow. “I have barely the strength to lift my hand, never mind grab your collar.”

In reply, Valjean gently scooped Javert’s hand in his. “You don’t need to,” he said. “I surrender myself to you, inspector.” He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “I—I would wait until you are well again and can deal with me as you see fit, but time being of the essence, I would make a request of you, if you would allow it.”

Javert didn’t respond. He was still tired and Valjean’s thumb strumming over the back of his hand filled his awareness as it slowly drained the tension from his body.

“Inspector? Will you allow me a request?”

“What request?” he muttered without opening his eyes.

“If you mean to arrest me, please grant me three days to solve an urgent matter. After that, I will without delay turn myself in to the court of Arras.”

At the last word, Javert started violently. “Wha— _No!_ ” He spat the word with so much force that his lungs convulsed in a coughing fit. Curling in on himself to escape the pain, he clutched the hand that held his. Waves of pain tore through him, sending him back to the endless, black ocean. A flash of light and he saw Valjean in the waves, going under.

_Never!_

He tightened his grip and pulled himself out of the water, to where the real Valjean was steadying him through the convulsions. Eventually the coughing stopped and Javert lay still, panting to catch his breath.

“Enough, inspector. You should rest now."

“To Hell with that,” he growled, glaring through his burning eyelids at Valjean. “You are not slipping out of this **…** anymore than I am.”

Valjean’s look was one of puzzlement and concern. “I’m not slipping out of anything, inspector, but you might. You are still very weak. I won't let you jeopardise your life—“

“Or I yours!”

“But—“

In another world, Javert would have decked him. As it was, his knuckles barely grazed the white beard before Valjean caught the offending hand in his own. “Please, do not waste your strength on this. Be still and rest. Sleep. You _need_ it.”

Javert opened his mouth to retort, but his breath hitched when Valjean’s cool hand framed his forehead. He recalled Valjean had done that number of times before, but never had the gesture been so intimate. In spite of himself, Javert felt his body relax under Valjean’s tender touch.

“Yes,” the deep voice soothed, “rest now and do not fight the inevitable.”

“…no.”

Valjean smiled wryly. “I’m a fugitive of the law, Javert. My life is already forfeit.”

Awake with shock, his eyes flew open. _“Forf—?”_ His voice broke with sheer indignation.Wresting his hand loose - and succeeding only because Valjean let him - he dug his fingers into the man’s cravat. “We had a _deal_ , Valjean!” he wheezed, having spent all his air on that one outburst. “And I… kept _my_ end… of that bargain!”

Valjean hung over him, on hand on the mattress to support himself as he tried to keep a respectable distance while not overstretching Javert’s weakened arm. “You remember that?” he whispered, face wrought with uncertainty. “You were so delirious, I—I did not think you would.”

“You hardheaded con,” Javert snarled hoarsely, yanking at the cravat. “Yes, I remember… and I remember _this_!”

The kiss was crude, badly aimed and didn’t last nearly long enough. When his breath ran out and his grip slackened, Javert had no choice but to let go. He fell back, panting desperately. “You say… you are… my prisoner? Then you have… no right… to turn yourself in… without my… permission. And I’m _not_ … giving it.”

Only inches away, Valjean stayed motionless, his face unreadable. The lack of response was disheartening and for a moment, Javert feared he had made another fatal misjudgement about this man. Long, terrifying moments passed. Then Valjean dipped his head, resting it lightly against Javert’s shoulder.

“ _Je t’obéis_ , _mon gardien._ ”

The whisper was so soft Javert first thought he had imagined it, but when fleeting, almost reverent kisses traced his jaw, he dared to believe the pledge of obedience he had heard.

“I feared you wouldn’t remember,” Valjean breathed in his ear between kisses. “Or that it was only the fever speaking and you would regret it when – if – you woke.”

“It was… the fever speaking,” he admitted honestly, “but I regret nothing.”

That seemed to be all the affirmation Valjean needed. The kisses grew firmer, and Javert moaned softly as white hairs nuzzled the sensitive skin of his throat down to his clavicle.

“You need a shave,” Valjean muttered into the itchy stubble on his chin. “And a bath.”

Javert closed his eyes and groaned at the thought of moving. “Not now…” he whispered.

“A sponge bath will do. You can sleep right through that.” Valjean pressed a kiss to Javert’s hair, sighing. “You did so before.”

An incoherent mutter was the only reply Javert could manage. He swallowed and tried again, but before the words forming in his mind made it to his mouth, he was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few more chapters to go. Thanks for waiting, everyone! Now, there is good news and bad news.
> 
> The good news is that this fic will be finished. The bad news is that updates will not come faster than they are now. I would apologize for that, but I'm working as fast as I can. Over summer I had plenty of time to spend the 20+ hours it takes me to put an average chapter together, but now I spend that much time every week following my classes, never mind doing the preparations and working for a living as well. But I'm still deeply invested in the Valvert-fandom, and apart from writing 'Surrender' and shorter fics, I'm also working on a big art project.
> 
> So I humbly beg your understanding and hope you will continue to enjoy this fic, eventhough it might take a bit longer to get to the end :P


	21. Cause and Consequence

Javert woke to the jingle of porcelain and silver, a gentle touch to his shoulder and voices speaking softly. Again. Such things had disturbed him repeatedly of late. So far he had only briefly abided the incursions before going back to the dreamless sleep he’d been hiding in. He would have done the same now, had not a vicious pain been lancing through his abdomen. The pain disappeared as quickly as it had come, but by then slumber was no longer an option. He groaned, peeling his eyelids open to see what the noise was about.

“Ah? Oh, good morning, inspector,” a woman’s voice said over further jingles. “Sorry to have woken you, but Monsieur Madeleine didn’t want to take breakfast downstairs. I brought you some tea as well.”

He gave her a blank look, getting his bearings while processing that she was talking to him and also expected a reply of sorts. He could think of only one: “Where’s Valjean?”

Madame Prost cocked her head, huffing like a school teacher at a wayward pupil. “Monsieur Jean will be right with you, inspector. Now, do you think you would like something to eat this morning?”

Eat? Food? The thought alone made his stomach turn. And sting the way it did when he was hungry. He frowned, realising with dread he would have to give serious consideration to solid food at some point. The obnoxious smells that rose from the bedside table did not improve that prospect.

“Tea will do, madame,” he muttered.

“Very well, inspector.” She poured some tea in a big mug, and then topped it off with cold water from the jug. “It is warm, but not hot enough to burn yourself. I served monsieur a good measure of milk, too. I’m sure he’d be willing to share it with you, if you feel inclined.”

Javert stared past the mug to observe the woman. Something about her voice, about the way she moved, was off. His hazy mind couldn’t put a finger on it, but she reminded him of a hidden blade, which only proved that he was still half asleep.

Too late he realised that she was observing him just as intently in return. “You really should eat, inspector. I can tell by your complexion that the worst is over, but sleep alone is not enough to get your strength back.”

He frowned. Who was she to – oh, yes. A nurse was what she was. “Speak of sleep…” He coughed to clear the film of mucus from the back of this throat. “How long was I out this time?”

“Monsieur Madeleine said you came to yesterday afternoon, but fell asleep again soon after.” She glared at him with that special kind of feminine ferocity. “He has been very worried about you, inspector. _Very_ worried!”

Javert blinked, wide awake but momentarily dumbstruck at the strange accusation. “That surprised me more than you, madame,” he said when his mouth cooperated. “To be honest never expected him to care at all.”

“But he does, inspector.” Her voice grew softer. “He does. I hope you will remember that.” Her face contorted as she looked down at her apron, but she didn’t hold on to it. “Right then, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No.”

“Very well.” She nodded rather than curtsied before turning – and running straight into Valjean.

“Oh, excuse me, madame!”

Javert saw her step back to let him in the room. “It’s nothing, monsieur. Do sit down. Breakfast is served for you both.”

“For us b—? Ah!” Valjean’s face lit up like a candle in the dark when he caught Javert’s eyes. Personally Javert saw no reason for such elation, but it was good in a strange way to see the man happy. He rarely considered the concept of beauty, but the light in those green eyes was what he would call beautiful.

“Thank you so much, madame,” said Valjean to his housekeeper. “May I perhaps trouble you for one more thing: some hot water? I think the inspector would appreciate having a shaving this morning.”

“I will see to it, monsieur,” Madame Prost replied. “As long as you do not let him hold the razor himself, of course.”

“I’m not suicidal, madame,” Javert growled from the bed.

Valjean patted her arm. “I believe that will sort itself out, madame. Thank you.”

As she left and shut the door behind her, Valjean approached the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “I’m glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Half a dozen words come to mind, but I’ll go with ‘sore’,” Javert said as he tried to sit up. His body was marginally more cooperative than before, in the sense that every part of his body recalled what it was supposed to do at the first try. Unfortunately he still lacked the strength to do much of anything, especially when Valjean put a heavy hand on his arm to keep him down while the other framed his forehead.

“You are still very feverish,” the older man said. “Are you sure you want to sit up?”

“I do. My back is stiff from lying down, and I need to be upright for that shave you promised.”

Valjean smiled faintly as he lifted his hands. “Then let me help you.”

Before he could protest, Javert found himself unceremoniously hoisted up and propped up against the headboard like a stuffed animal. The comparison was not unjustified, he thought as he closed his eyes to adjust to the change of position. Without the covers, the clammy nightshirt he was wearing quickly got cold, and he shivered. A hand in his neck motioned him to lean forward. When he did, a woollen blanket was draped around his shoulders.

“You are too stubborn for your own good,” Valjean complained. “Is that better, or do you need more?”

“This will do. Thank you.” He was still cold, but he could feel how the plaid trapped his body heat. In a few minutes, he’d be warm again and more blankets would only smother him. He coughed into his hand, and then glanced at the tray on the bedside table. There was no visible steam coming from the mug that Madame Prost had poured him, but when he reached for it, the ceramic felt warm to his touch.

Lifting it was another matter. His arm trembled when he tried, and Valjean was quick to come to his aid. “Are you sure you can hold this?”

Grasping the mug in both hands, Javert nodded. The mug was heavy, much heavier than fine porcelain, but he was determined not to let that bother him. His arms shook as he brought it to his mouth, but his hands kept a good grip. He nipped at the fluid. The tea was not hot, but warm enough, even to him. He drank some more, feeling the warmth glide down his gullet; a welcome change from the cold tea and water he’d been given so far. Bit by bit, regularly letting the mug rest in his lap for the sake of his arms, he continued to drink.

Beside him, Valjean dug his teeth into a croissant. While they shared breakfast in silence, Javert noticed that whenever Valjean looked at him, the man would smile. The moment he looked away, however, a shadow came over his face and he looked tired and haggard. It was clear that something was amiss, and that Valjean planned to hide it. A spy by nature, Javert did not appreciate being in the dark. The next time that he caught Valjean looking away, he’d had enough.

“Stop that,” he growled. “Whatever it is, have out with it.”

Valjean did not reply. Only when Javert nudged his knee against the broad back did he acknowledge the question. He glanced nervously at Javert. “Do you remember waking yesterday?” he asked.

Javert nodded. “And I remember what I said, too.” And what he did. If Valjean had sat any closer, he would like to have tried for a repeat performance.

But Valjean didn’t move. He only stared at this half-eaten croissant.

“Valjean…”

“Hmm?”

“Whatever is bothering you, don’t make me drag it out of you. Right now I have neither the strength nor the attention span for such games.”

“Then do not try to,” Valjean said with a forced smile. “It is nothing you should concern yourself with anyway.”

Javert rolled his eyes, the only show of exasperation he was capable of at the moment. “Do you fear I might decide to arrest you after all?”

“Well, that is your decision, isn’t it? I already surrendered. What happens now is up to you.”

Javert scoffed, but then scraped his throat to hide it when he saw Valjean’s pained expression. Other people’s state of mind had never been of much concern to him, but his heart, already heavy with the effort of beating too fast for too long, ached at seeing Valjean so downcast.

It unsettled him that he would feel this way. It unsettled him more that he did not feel inclined to hide it as he always had. All his life, he had viewed the world by the light of the law. Now that this light had been replaced with a bigger one, he saw more, but wasn’t sure anymore of what it was he saw. He could _see_ Valjean’s agony, yes. But then what? He was lost in uncharted waters with only an untried instinct as compass. But he refused to let Valjean drown.

“What is it you’re not telling me?” he demanded headlong.

Valjean started, but did not meet his gaze. “As I said, you should not concern yourself with that.”

“Your housekeeper berated me for worrying you too much. I think I’m entitled to know if her accusations were justified.”

“She did what?”

“Was she right?”

Croissant crumbs rained onto the floor as Valjean slumped, burying his head in his free hand. “She doesn’t know the whole story,” he began. “She knows that I fear for your life, but she knows nothing of my fears for the girl, or for… for the life of this man who will hang for my crimes.”

Now that was something Javert knew how to deal with. Back on the familiar territory of the penal code, his mind came alive despite the dulling heat of fever and traced the steps it knew by heart. “He will not be hanged. I don’t know why you would think that,” Javert said, half an eye on the remaining piece of croissant still balancing in Valjean’s fingers. He flinched when strong fingers all but crushed the delicate dough.

“You said so! You said that this man would be hanged as the repeat offender I am!”

“Then I must have been delirious at the time, because the law prescribes that all death penalties are executed by means of the guillotine.” He stared at the manhandled croissant. “Are you going to finish that?”

Valjean dropped the mangled bread like a hot coal on the nearest plate. When Javert followed it rather than the conversation, he shoved the plate onto Javert’s lap. “They will decapitate him?”

Javert did not answer. He had his mouth full and now his attention was fully absorbed by the taste of croissant. The prospect of swallowing it was alarming, but fortunately the bread was fresh and soft. Aided by the smooth cream spread inside, it did not sting his throat at all. Neither did it did taste has he knew croissants ought to, but that was insignificant to his growling stomach. Without hesitation, he ate the last piece, too.

“Javert, please! I am to no end grateful that you are regaining your appetite, but I have to know what fate I condemned that man to!”

“Oh?” he said, or tried to without opening his mouth. He chewed a few more times and swallowed. “Is the verdict published then?” How could that be? It normally took the court two weeks to do that, and he hadn’t slept _that_ long.

But Valjean was shaking all over, eyes wide but unfocussed. Javert sighed. What could he do? He could not take back the words that he suspected to be the cause, because they were true. What then? A touch? It seemed to work on him when Valjean touched him, but surely it couldn’t be as simple as that?

The bedroom door opened, breaking the moment if not the tension. Madame Prost came in, carrying a large, steaming basin. Mechanically Valjean rose to fetch the wash stand. He put it next to the bed and removed its basin and replacing it with the one Madame Prost was holding.  

“Hot water as requested, monsieur. There is a towel in the water, so that will be nice and hot. You put the soap and the razor in the dresser, didn’t you?”

Javert listened in with interest. Why did Valjean have shaving equipment? The man had a beard like a sailor!

“I will get the rest myself, madame. Thank you.”

She lingered a moment, studying Valjean’s face. “Monsieur? Are you well?”

“It is nothing, madame. The stress of the past days, that is all.”

It wasn’t all, Javert could tell. A little voice in the back of his head said that he had missed something, but he couldn’t determine what it was.

Evidently Madame Prost was not convinced, either, but Valjean left her no position to protest. “If you say so, monsieur.” But when she turned to leave, she shot Javert a warning glare in the passing. He failed to be impressed with her anger, although he did share her concern about Valjean.

He had intended to bring up the subject, but when he saw the razor, shaving cream and brush that Valjean had collected from the dresser, he got sidetracked when he recognised the items as his own. He leaned his head back, smirking.

“Now those look familiar. I was wondering why you’d have a razor at the ready.”

Valjean said nothing, but he was shaking as he set the items down on the wash stand. He held out his trembling hands, clenching his fists to stop them. To no avail. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m afraid that shave will have to wait for a few minutes.”

Javert shrugged with the one shoulder that would. “Doesn’t matter. It can wait until tomorrow, if need be.”

The mattress dipped as Valjean sat down again, but he would not look at Javert. The nagging voice inside Javert’s head grew stronger, and it dawned on him what the likely problem was: crippling uncertainty. Javert could relate to that. While the outcome of the trial was unknown, Valjean fretted about the consequences. But unlike him, Javert did have confidence in the legal system.

“The prosecutor’s accusation is one thing,” he said to Valjean’s stiffened back, “but without sufficient evidence, an accusation cannot become a conviction.” When Valjean only tensed further, Javert let his hand slip from the plaid, to cover the white-knuckled fingers digging into the mattress. “You fear that this man will be executed for your crimes, but how can you know that, if you do not know whether he was found guilty or not?”

To his surprise, Valjean’s fingers curled tightly around his. “You were so sure,” Valjean whispered, still staring at the floor. “You said they had not choice but to convict him.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He summoned his recollections on the matter and tried to piece together the assumptions that had led him to that conclusion. He sighed at what he found. “I was raving, Valjean. I did not want to testify against the wrong man, nor throw you to the wolves.” He paused until his breathing evened. “My testimony as a police officer would have been strong evidence, but I never testified. And even if I had… How could this man have your brand?”

Now Valjean did turn to him. “Do… do you think that is possible? That he will not be put to death? Even found innocent of those accusations?”

Javert squeezed Valjean’s hand. It was the best answer he could think of without risking a lie. There was a chance the man would get off with a light sentence, certainly, but a chance alone would not put Valjean’s mind at ease.

“All I can say for sure is that if you were to reveal yourself, you might do so for nothing. But if you do, you _will_ end on the hack block and... and…” he took an uneasy breath as his heart overruled his sense of duty for the first time in his life, “…for all you did, lawful or not, you do not deserve such punishment.”

For a moment everything was silent. Then, slowly, Valjean turned his whole body around and collapsed, burying his face in Javert’s chest. Shocked, Javert froze for an instant. Then he realised that Valjean was not just shaking. “There now,” he muttered uneasily, freeing his arms from the plaid to put them around the broad shoulders. “It—it will be all right.” What would be all right and whether it indeed would be, he didn’t know, but he sensed it was the appropriate thing to say. He held Valjean as the man clung to him with the strength of the desperate, whimpering unintelligible pleas between muffled sobs. Javert let him. Maybe Madame Prost’s glare had been justified after all.

Javert intended to give Valjean all the time he needed. Inside, the nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. He wanted Valjean to cry his eyes out and get whatever it was off his chest. But as one minute followed another, the weight on his own chest was too much and he couldn’t suppress the coughs any longer.

At the first spasm of Javert’s torso, Valjean scrambled upright. “Oh, God, I am so sorry!” he blurted, running a shirt sleeve over his wet face. “I should not burden you when you are—“ He stopped, mouth hanging halfway open while Javert’s fingers stroked the white hairs of his beard.

Javert chuckled wearily. “If I had known this is all it takes to shut you up, we could have spared ourselves a lot of arguments in the past.”

Valjean went red, but leaned into the touch, bemoaning it when Javert could not hold his arm up any longer. “It was not fair of me to ask this of you,” he sighed. “You are the one who needs care, not me.” He ran a cool hand over Javert’s face. “I know I promised you a shave, but are you sure up are still to it?”

“All I need to do is sit still. That I can do that very well…”

Valjean dipped two fingers in the basin behind him. “The water is cold, though.”

“Does that matter? As it is, I’m hot and damp enough of myself.”

“That is what worries me,” said Valjean. “Of course if you insist on seeing this through, I could shave off your whiskers, too.”

A growl rose from the back of Javert’s throat. “Do that and die.”

“Oh, no need for sarcasm,” Valjean chided as he pulled a dry towel form the wash stand and tucked it around Javert’s neck. “It is a serious suggestion. As long as you are running such a fever, I thought you would be more comfortable without them.”

It was a valid point, but Javert discarded the idea nevertheless. The sideburns would grow back soon enough, but until then he would not feel like himself. “Why don’t you concentrate on the task at hand, hmm?” he said as Valjean prepared the lather. “It must have been years since you last did this.”

Green eyes lit up as Valjean smiled a true smile. “It did not always have a full beard, and certain skills are never lost.”

Javert closed his eyes as Valjean applied the cold lather to his jaw and cheeks. He opened one eye at the metallic click of the razor unfolding.

“Now, tilt your head back and sit very still.”

He did, although that had less to do with self-control than with a lack of energy. He felt the razor touch his upper lip first, gently grazing his skin as it moved down. At Valjean’s commands, he moved his jaw and lips to keep the skin taut where the sharp edge scraped away the hairs and the lather. The feeling itself was unpleasant, but the cool air that followed was welcome. Unfortunately that did not stop the sheen of sweat welling up again, and soon every inch of shaven skin itched like mad.

“Can you tilt your head back a bit further?” Valjean asked as he trailed the lather brush along the underside of Javert’s jaw.

Without protest, he complied. Still he shivered for something else than cold when Valjean pulled the razor over the sensitive skin over his throat. Without wanting to, he gasped. The blade stopped.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, I just…” He swallowed hard, grimacing in exasperation with himself. “The policeman in me isn’t happy at letting anyone hold a razorblade to my throat, least of all a convict.”

“Ah.” Valjean pursed his lips. “But I do need to finish this, I’m afraid.”

Javert nodded, then leaned back once more. “Please do. My instinct will have to learn that you are an exception.”

And it would. The panic had been merely a generic response born from twenty years of dealing with the worst of mankind. He barely trusted himself, let alone another living soul. Yet Valjean was different. He trusted Valjean. Always had, ever since that prison riot in Toulon…

A cold, very wet towel dabbing his jaw signalled the shaving was done. Javert resisted the urge to scratch at the irritated skin.

“Just the finishing touch,” Valjean said and he patted Javert’s jaw and cheeks with both hands. Immediately, the itch became a handful of needles. Javert clenched his teeth until the alcohol evaporated and the stinging subsided back to a dull itch.

“There,” Valjean said. “How does that feel?”

“Better.” He felt cooler and cleaner at any rate. And exhausted. If he lay himself down now, he was sure to fall asleep again. So he didn’t. “Your Madame Prost said something about milk, I believe,” he muttered while Valjean cleared away the shaving equipment.

“Would you like some? There is enough. There are more croissants, too, if you like.”

“I think I might…”

He only noticed that he had nodded off for a few minutes when he woke to Valjean putting a plate in his lap. On it laid a fresh croissant with a dot of cream on the side.

“ _Bon appétit_ ,” said Valjean, biting into his own bread roll - with cheese, judging by the smell of old socks. Javert tried to ignore it. He was hungry, but still queasy and strong scents didn’t help. After two bites from the bread and glass of milk, the thought of eating more became revolting. He pushed the plate away. Valjean got the hint and put it aside.

In the distance he heard Valjean say that he should lie down again, but it did not register. His mind was too weary by now to focus on more than one thing at a time, and currently it churned on that damned nag that still hadn’t disappeared. He had forgotten something, he knew. No, not forgotten, overlooked. Something important; something he had to ask about. He stared at Valjean. It was right there, in the man’s face, on his lips…

“Girl!”

“What did you say?”

“Girl,” Javert repeated hoarsely. “You said you fear for the girl as well as the man in Arras… What girl is that?”

Valjean’s face darkened as he ran his hands through his white hair. “…Fantine’s daughter,” he said at length. “The people she is with are bad folk. They extorted Fantine to the point of prostitution and when I took over her correspondence with them, they began to press me for money, too. I received another letter from them yesterday. The girl is sick, they say, and they need money to pay for a doctor lest she dies.”

Javert’s inner policeman stirred. “Do you believe them?” he inquired.

“Can I risk it? If I send them money, it will not be spend on the girl, that much I’m sure of. But if she really _is_ sick…”

“Or dead.” At Valjean’s look of horror, it dawned on Javert that maybe he had to take more care with his words around this man. “Men are capable of terrible things, Valjean…” he sighed. “There is a chance the girl no longer lives… but that they never told the mother that.”

It was evident that this possibility had not crossed Valjean’s mind, and that it grieved him to consider it. It didn’t surprise Javert that an honourable man like Valjean would believe what others told him. He could not. Criminals lied by default, in his experience. He had never had such faith in mankind, but in some strange way he admired Valjean for having retained – or regained – that faith despite the life he had known. Maybe that was why Javert had trusted Valjean despite barely trusting himself. 

Far away, the voice of Valjean told him that the girl lived in Montfermeil, and that he had wanted to bring her to her mother before. The mother was dead now, but her daughter could not stay with these people regardless. That, Javert agreed on. It was not just to hold the sins of the parents against a child. He should know! The deep voice continued to explain other details, which he forgot the moment he heard them. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He really didn’t…

“—but the journey would take me three days to make.

Javert’s eyes snapped open. “Three days…?” He managed through the hot fog that had seeped in between his mind and his mouth. “Three days before you… come back?”

“Of course I will come back,” said Valjean with a warm smile. “And I will not leave you until I’m sure that you are well enough.”

But Javert wasn’t listening anymore. Three days… Three days without Valjean. Possibly more; possibly forever… Three days was enough time for Valjean to run and disappear. Or worse, reveal himself to the court. Montfermeil was near Paris, and the route to Paris was through Arras.

His breathing became laboured. He trusted Valjean with his life, but did he dare to trust Valjean with his _own_ life? Passing through Arras, it would be too tempting for Valjean to stop and find out what had happened at the trial. Bands of iron tightened around his chest and he shivered incessantly. Hands touched him but he did not feel their comfort. All he could think of was that if the man in Arras really had been convicted, Valjean would denounce himself to save him. But if the man _hadn’t_ been convicted for being a notorious criminal and a parole breaker—

—the Prefecture could reopen the manhunt on Valjean, with one rock-solid lead: a police inspector’s report denouncing the mayor of Montreuil!

His racing heart tripped, skipping several beats at once. He gulped for air, coughing as his heart found its rhythm again. Another deep breath only made him cough more. Valjean held him, but Javert wouldn’t let him. How could he accept anything from the man he had condemned by his own hand? With unexpected strength he lashed out, pushing Valjean back. There was a yelp and a thundering crash, but then Valjean was looming over him, pinning him down. Javert tried to buck, to turn away, but Valjean was stronger. _Much_ stronger… 

“Javert, stop thrashing and calm down!” Valjean yelled. “I told you, I will _not_ leave you like this!”

Footsteps, a door opening, shards cracking underfoot. “Monsieur!” the housekeeper exclaimed. “I heard a crash! What is going on?”

“A panic attack, I think. He surprised me and I knocked over the wash stand,” Valjean replied. His grip tensed when Javert tried to sit up. “No, lie still! Or should I tie you down again?”

Tied down… under the Toulon sun… by his convict… Obey… He would obey…

His last remaining strength sapped, Javert went limp in Valjean’s arms. He panted and gasped, one hand feebly groping at the shirt that filled his vision. When he ceased to struggle, Valjean’s hold changed from firm and rigid to a gentle, careful touch. Javert leaned into the arm that cradled his neck.

“Go,” he whispered. “Go to Montfermeil… while you can.”

“Not until I’m sure that you are safe.” Cold lips kissed his burning brow. “Not until your fever breaks.”

“No! Valjean, you don’t—!”

“Shh,” Valjean hissed, pressing a finger to Javert’s mouth. “Spare your energy. You are slipping into delirium again.”

Frowning, Javert turned his head as far as he could to lose the finger. “No, get the girl… Go to Paris… and hide. Don’t come back…” He got a hold of the shirt’s front panel. “… and don’t show… don’t show _this…_ to anyone,” he wheezed, unable to find the word for what marked the number on the skin underneath.

Valjean sighed. “You know not what you are saying. Madame? A cold cloth, if you please. Quickly.”

Javert’s world faded in and out of focus. All that was unchanging were the two green eyes looking down at him. “Go…” he muttered. “You must leave… before they come for you…”

“You are dreaming, Javert. No one is coming for anyone.”

He whimpered, first in protest, then for the sudden ice shooting over his face. His mind sought clarity in the cold, but even so he could not get beyond repeating that one word, pleading with Valjean to heed it:

“Go…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws plot notes out the window* Sorry for the wait, but this chapter got hijacked by the boys again and they made me rewrite it. Twice. To be honest, they did a better job than what I had come up with, but they did exchange what meager smut I had planned for unexpected drama. Let me know if I should reign them in...
> 
> Now with most blatant typo's fixed


	22. The Man and the Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I'm not dead! At last RL became less hectic and I found time to finish this. Thank you all for waiting so long! I hope I don't disappoint you.
> 
> When we left off, Javert begged Valjean to go find Cosette and go into hiding. This is where we find out if he did.

The sun was setting over the skyline of Paris when Valjean made his way down the long road towards the city with a little waif of a girl on his back. They had been walking all day, and when the child had gotten tired, he had carried her the rest of the way. It was no burden to him, since she weighed next to nothing. Two miles back, she had fallen asleep. No surprise, all things considered.

Up ahead, the outskirts of this quartier took shape, among them the semi-derelict house that he had left the morning of the day before. When he reached the front door, he carefully slid the girl off his back and caught her in his arms. Settling her on his hip, her head resting against his shoulder, he got out a rust key. He opened the door and carried the child up the dark stairs to the apartment he had rented here.

On the inside, the house was just as rundown. The apartment itself consisted of two rooms, although the smaller room was barely more than a closet. It had come with a table, some chairs, a mattress and a cot bed, all of them well-used. Not much, but it was the least conspicuous he could find on short notice upon his arrival in Paris. For now the conditions mattered little. He did not intend to stay here more than a few days, maybe two weeks. Then he would find them a better place. The girl Cosette had seen enough hardship already in her young life.

Valjean had loathed leaving Montreuil, but feeling her thin body as he laid her down in the cot bed and pulled the covers over her, he was once again reminded that retrieving her had been the right thing to do. Cosette’s situation had been far worse than he had dared to think. She wasn't sick, as that man Thénardier had led to believe, but her reasonably good health was nothing short of a miracle: she was malnourished, mistreated and abused. The raw skin and purple bruises, now covered by the black dress and stockings that Valjean had bought for her, were testimony to what had been done to her. The man who had been a galley slave shuddered to think that people would treat a child the same way. He had broken the law to earn such punishment. Cosette was guilty of nothing more than that she was alive.   

Yes, it was a good thing he had taken her away from those people when he did. It was a good thing that Javert had convinced him to do so.

He froze, the name of his guard falling in silence from his lips. He hadn't wanted to leave Montreuil, not while Javert was so very ill. To Valjean, the man’s continuous insistence that he should run and hide had sounded like mere ravings brought on by nightmares and fever dreams. How could he leave when his guard was in such a state?

But in lucid moments, Javert had repeated his plea, explaining how his letter would bring the prefecture back on Valjean’s trail; how that trail would lead them to Montreuil. And how they would sentence Valjean to death if they found him there. Javert words had been bluntly factual, his voice raspy but clear despite the recurring coughing fits. In fact, he’d sounded so much like himself that Valjean knew he should heed the advice. Yet he only needed to see Javert’s glassy eyes and sunken features to know that he could not leave just yet.

But he was also realistic. The life of Madeleine was coming to an end. He had signed his official resignation as mayor as well as his last will and testament, stating that Madeleine’s factory and fortune was to become property of the town in the event of his death. He had also withdrawn a considerable amount of cash from the bank, which he had hidden in the lining of an old coat. That coat sat at the bottom of a valise packed with the bare essentials for a few days on the road. Thus prepared, he could leave at a moment’s notice.

That night, shaking with fever but his pale gaze clear, Javert had once more insisted with him to do just that. Valjean had brushed it off, saying it could wait until Javert got stronger.

Closing his eyes on the present, Valjean could still hear Javert’s tired but derisive scoff.

_“Stronger? Stronger for what, Valjean? I cannot come with you. I cannot abandon my post… Illness is an acceptable reason for absence… Sudden disappearance is not.”_

_“Not even to apprehend criminals? These people have extorted first Fantine and then me. Is that not a crime?”_

_“Don’t be foolish! You know the rules of… of jurisdiction...”_

_“Save your breath, Javert. Rest. We will talk tomorrow.”_

_“Oh, just leave, will you…? Go! Stop only to collect the girl… Then hide in Paris… I will find you there.”_

_“Out of the question! You cannot find me if you die first, and I will not let that happen.”_

_“And I cannot find you… if you let the authorities catch you first… now can I? Go, Valjean. I will live… and I will find you… I swear.”_

Javert hadn’t had the stamina to argue further, but Valjean knew he wouldn’t have pushed his point any further. It had become a matter of faith now. He had surrendered himself to his guard and sworn loyalty to him. That vow would lose its meaning if he did not have faith in Javert’s vow of loyalty in return. So in the morning, he had packed his valise and said goodbye.

But when he had boarded the _diligence_ to Paris, a terrible anxiety had gotten hold of him. He had planned to be away no more than three days to fetch the girl. Now he was going away forever, without a word to anyone. Had he made all the arrangements necessary? Would he ever see Javert again? Thoughts like that had sent him into silent fits of panic as the carriage rattled on.

The journey was long, so long. Throughout the three endless days it took the _diligence_ to get to Paris over the snow-covered roads, Valjean had forced himself not to think of Javert, lest he’d turn around and take the next coach back. Instead he thought of the child he was going to retrieve and sang psalms under his breath to pass the time. Getting out of the carriage when they changed horses in Arras didn’t even cross his mind.

Then Paris had come in sight and he’d had other things to worry about: making up an alias and finding a good room to rent under that name; changing his clothes to become a beggar rather than a gentleman; the full day’s walk to Montfermeil. And then the inn…

Valjean looked the little girl in the bed. Cosette’s thin fingers tugging at the worn pillow case and she made tiny, fretful noises. He stroked her arm to comfort her, but she shied away without waking. In another attempt to sooth her, he got out the porcelain doll that he had bought her the day before. He had kept it in his coat while she slept on his back, and now he put it beside her on the pillow. A warm smile curled his lips as her little hand found it and pulled the soft dress to her face. She sighed softly. Within moments, the nightmare had gone away.

It would return, though, Valjean knew. Like he dreamt of the bagne, Cosette would dream of the nightmare that had been her life at the inn for time to come. How could she not? In a few short hours, he had seen how she was treated and saw the tales that her little body told, tales too similar to his own. He had bought that doll for her in the spur of the moment, to please the girl and to show the Thénardiers that he meant business. But when her little face had lit up with wonder when she realised it was hers to keep, Valjean suddenly understood why Monseigneur Myriel had reached out to a wretched con all these years ago: what was a small gesture for him, changed the girl’s life. From that moment on, he had decided that he would keep the child safe and raise her as his own.

Fifteen hundred francs he had paid the Thénardiers. A reimbursement in name, but the price of the child in effect. His deed of Christian charity could too easily be confused with a criminal transaction, he knew. That was why he had left no name at the inn, and even if people had seen him take the girl to Paris, they would not find him. After all, Paris was where people got lost in the crowd.

Got lost in the crowd… He raked his hands through his hair. Yes, people got lost in this city. If he was careful, the local authorities would never even know he existed. So how on Earth was Javert ever going to find him? Javert was a good spy, tenacious and with the instinct of a bloodhound on a fox’ trail. But Paris was big, its population even bigger. Two find a man and a girl that did not want to be found was too daunting a task. If Javert ever came at all.

Valjean staggered under the weight of the horrific loneliness that came over him. His hands rested on the back of the nearest chair to keep standing. Here he was, hiding in a musty old apartment with a child he didn’t know, with no name but those he made up, no possessions but what he had with him, and no way to access what he had left behind for fear of discovery. Oh, he had always been aware that the bliss he knew in Montreuil was only temporary, but never had it hurt it to think that one day it would pass. Now it had come to an end, and it filled him with sorrow.

In the last daylight that shone in through the dirty window, Valjean’s downcast eyes noticed something small and white lying on the floor. Several somethings. When he reached down, he found they were bits of paper, torn along the edges. He could not recall having anything of paper on him but some large bills sewn into the lining of his coat. This paper could not be his. Alert by nature, he lit the single candle on the table to examine it.

By the small flame, he put the pieces on the table. Some were blank on both sides, but some had writing on them. When he fitted the two largest pieces together, he could make out a few partial sentences, written in an unsteady hand. Half-finished letters and missing punctuation made them hard to read, but after the first few words, Valjean didn’t need to anymore. He knew what this was: Javert’s half-finished letter of resignation.

Valjean recalled how he had snatched the letter from Javert’s desk and had torn it up after seeing the garbled writing. He had put the scraps in his coat pocket, meaning to burn them later, but after Javert had collapsed on his landing he had forgotten all about it. How did they get here? Of course, the doll. The scraps must have clung to its dress and scattered when he’d pulled the toy out of his coat just now.

Mystery solved, he stared at the shaky handwriting. Javert had been too sick at the time to think properly, never mind write a sensible letter. But when he told Valjean to go and not come back, his condition had been worse still... Valjean brushed the edge of one of the scraps, almost fearful it would shatter at his touch. If Javert did not come for him – if death or reality made him break his promise - these torn bits of paper were all that was left to remember him by.

Valjean shuddered as fear and fatigue compounded to a dark mass around him. He wanted to go home, to Montreuil. He had been gone for nearly a week already. Anything could have happened in that time, even the worst! How was he supposed to stomach the idea of spending weeks, months, possibly years hiding in the city, not knowing if he had any hope that Javert might come for him one day?

“Monsieur?”

He snapped to attention, blinking a few times to press the tears from his eyes. Cosette stood on the threshold between the rooms, her white underwear creased and her doll clutched to her chest. She stared at him with big, round eyes.

“I am sorry, child. Did I wake you?”

“No, monsieur. Catherine had a bad dream.” She held the doll tighter.

“I see.” Valjean smiled at her. Her open, trusting face gave him the courage to face the darkness ahead. “You do not have to call me ‘monsieur’,” he said kindly. “I told you that, didn’t I?”

The girl nodded, looking down.

“Oh, Cosette, I’m not cross with you. Come.” He gestured her to sit on his lap. After some encouragement, she did. “Did you have a bad dream, too?” he asked her as he petted her hair and back. She stiffened at the touch, as she had all day when he held her hand. It did not surprise him. The only touch she was accustomed to was beatings. Poor thing, wanting to shy away from a kind hand. In a way not unlike how Javert reacted to tenderness when he was lucid.

The memory hit Valjean hard. Instinctively he held Cosette close, rocking her. That, too, felt too familiar, but with her head under his chin, she couldn’t see his tears.

“Did I do something wrong?” the girl asked timidly.

Now it was Valjean who stiffened. Sitting back, he gazed at her. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because you are sad.” He pointed a pale little finger at his wet cheek.

He wiped his face dry and smiled again. “You do not make me sad, child. On the contrary! I was only thinking of someone who… But never mind that. You should be back in bed. It has been a long day and you must be as tired as I am.”

She didn’t protest when he brought her back to the cot and tucked her under the covers. But when he kissed her goodnight, she didn’t close her eyes.

“Monsieur?”

He didn’t correct her. “Yes, Cosette?”

“Were you sad because you were thinking of someone who’s gone?”

Another shudder shot over his spine. “Please, child, let’s not speak of it.” He went back to the table and blew out the candle, dipping the room in a darkness that mirrored what he felt inside. It was still early in the evening, but he took off his shoes and lay himself down on the worn mattress.

“Maman is gone, too,” said Cosette’s small but clear voice in the dark. “Is she in Heaven now? With God?”

Valjean’s heart sank. “Yes, Cosette. Your mother is with God now.” He had explained that to her after leaving Montfermeil, but Fantine’s death did not make a very big impression. Perhaps the girl did not remember her mother well enough to miss her now that she was gone. After all, to Cosette, her mother had been ‘gone’ almost all her life.

He waited for the girl to settle down and go to sleep. He would not close his eyes until she did. Elsewhere in the house, the portress was moving furniture around and humming off key as she went about her business. Then the old cot bed creaked.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes, child?”

“Shall I ask Maman to look after your friend who’s gone? I’m sure she will.” Without awaiting his answer, she began to mutter a childish prayer of her own making under her breath.

Under the cover of darkness, Valjean did not have to hide his tears. This dear little girl understood far more of life than her age should allow for. Whispering the Lord’s Prayer along with the child’s, he thanked both God and Javert for giving him the chance to save her. He could not save the mother, but he would protect the child and shelter her; this little bright light in the darkness that had descended on his unravelled life.

“Monsieur?” Cosette suddenly said. “Maman can’t know who to look after if she doesn’t know who your friend is.”

Valjean grimaced. “Oh, she knows how he is,” he said before he could help himself. He hoped the girl had not noticed the chill in his tone. She did not need to know how Fantine had crawled on her knees while Javert towered over her in his formidable righteousness. Valjean knew he could never forget that image. Such a terrifying sight, yet in that moment, both of them had been noble.

In hindsight, it was even more terrifying to think that by saving Fantine from jail, Valjean had sown the seeds of his own destruction. Still he could not blame Javert for denouncing Madeleine. Javert had only done his sacred duty to the law; a duty that he could not neglect because it defined him and kept him from falling back to the gutter he was born in.

But on the table lay scraps of paper that said that Javert had wanted to give up that sacred duty.

“Hold on…” Valjean got up from the mattress and set himself at the table. It was too dark now to see much, so he lit the candle once more. The scribbled words on the torn papers made no more sense now that they had before, but they nudged him to considering something he hadn’t thought about until now.

He ran a frantic hand over his face. Officially Javert meant his resignation from the police force as punishment for his transgression against a superior. Such harsh condemnation befitted Javert’s professional attitude, so Valjean – or rather Madeleine – hadn’t given is a second thought. But two days later, coming out of the chloroform’s stupor, Javert had begged Valjean’s personal forgiveness and asked again to be dismissed. It was a ludicrous request given the circumstances, but Valjean remembered that there had been something peculiar about Javert’s plea. An unusual turn of phrase, but what was it? What _was_ it?

_“…no longer duty-bound to tell the court they have the wrong man. You’d be free…”_

Yes, that! At the time, he had dismissed it as feverish ranting, but since then Valjean had learned that much of what Javert had said had in his delirium was in fact true. And if this was, too, then Javert had been willing to sacrifice his duty – his life! - for Valjean’s sake even before they had gotten intimate.

“Oh, God…” Valjean gritted his teeth, muttering words that hadn’t crossed his lips since the bagne. In his fear that Javert would turn against him after all, he had been too blind to see that the inspector had never truly been his enemy in the first place! Javert had risked as much for his convict as Valjean had risked for him when he’d allowed Jean Valjean to resurface from under Madeleine’s mask. And now Valjean had readily left the side of this man who needed him so. “I have been such a fool!”

“Huh?” said a small, drowsy voice behind him. 

Valjean turned in his seat. “It is nothing, Cosette. Sleep well.” Then, because he felt he had to voice his thoughts lest his heart would burst through his chest, he added: “Early tomorrow morning, we are going on a long journey.”

“Oh. Like today?”

“Longer still. But do not worry, this time we will be riding in a big carriage.”

 

* * *

 

The cold February weather had not improved the condition of the roads. Half-frozen mud, icy patches and slick stones made it too dangerous for horses to go any faster than a canter and so progress was slow. Horribly slow.

On the upside, few people travelled in this weather. The _diligence_ was not half full, and Valjean and Cosette only had to share the dank space of the cabin with an older bourgeois couple who introduced themselves as Monsieur and Madame Bocquet. He did not stand out in such company, as he had once again donned the clothes and name of Monsieur Madeleine. Identifying himself as such was both familiar and awkward, but he could not risk using an other alias while travelling to place where people might recognise him.

During the first hours, as Paris disappeared behind them, Valjean kept to himself as usual. He only looked up from his thoughts when Cosette spoke to him, or when the games she played with her doll made him smile. But when the lady across him made a remark about how Cosette was such a sweet girl, he was inevitably drawn into conversation. A blessing in disguise, as it turned out. He had not yet given any thought to how he would introduce Cosette to others, but now he was forced to come up with a plausible story.

“She is my granddaughter,” he told the couple. “Her mother died recently and she has no father, so I brought her to live with me.”

“Oh, poor thing,” the lady said woefully. “What a beautiful doll you have there, dear. Does she have a name?”

Cosette pressed closer to Valjean, but then nodded. “Catherine,” she whispered.

“Catherine? Oh, that is lovely. A beautiful name for a beautiful young lady!”

Valjean noticed how Cosette shied away despite the careful smile on her chapped lips. “It is all right, child. These are friendly people,” he said to her. Then he glanced at the couple and sighed. “Had I known how she was growing up, I would have fetched her sooner.”

The woman made a gesture of pity and shock, and her husband shook his head. “Youngsters these days,” he growled, scowling at the window. “They take no responsibility for their actions, monsieur! My son, monsieur, let me tell you about my son. He—”

“No, Henri. Please do not tire monsieur with your discontent over how Gerard chooses to live his life.”

“Ha!” But he settled back against the bench. “No responsibility I tell you! Maybe if I cut off his funding, he will come to his senses!”

The woman tried to hush her husband, but Valjean’s mind found the man’s anger to be of further inspiration. “Indeed the young can be thoughtless, monsieur. But we were once young, too, and should forgive them their mistakes. My… daughter did not ask for my help when she needed it, nor did she want to accept it when I offered it. When at last she did, it was already too late…” His throat tightened at the thought of Fantine, and he looked away for a moment. Strange how his impromptu explanation was surprisingly accurate. Fantine had not been his daughter, of course, but otherwise every word of it was true.

After that brief exchange, he could not avoid further conversation on other topics. The Bocquets were kind and educated people, although the man had something of a temper. To his own surprise, Valjean managed to steer clear from those shoals when Madeleine’s eloquence heeded the call of need. Against his expectations, that did not make him feel as if he was not himself. For a while he even enjoyed the discussions they had to pass the time.

In the night of their unscheduled stop-over near Montdidier, Valjean wondered if perhaps Monsieur Madeleine was not a different persona that had replaced Valjean, but more like a set of traits he could adopt or discard at will without losing the essence of Valjean. Maybe Javert was right in saying that the Madeleine-identity was similar to his uniform: a layer of civilisation covering the passionate and somewhat brutal nature underneath.

That thought gave him hope. Hope that he did not have to give up all aspects of Madeleine, and that he could continue to hide in plain sight, as he had for the last eight years. His travelling companions had unwittingly helped him to devise an explanation for his behaviour of late. With Cosette beside him, he could explain how the sudden loss of his estranged daughter had pained him and how he had worried over the fate of his young granddaughter. Add to that the suggestion of personal health issues and no one would doubt that his recent seclusion and his resignation as mayor were justified.

Valjean sensed a strength and elation that he hadn’t felt in weeks. If he could convince people that he was still Monsieur Madeleine, only Javert would know the truth. And by now Valjean was certain that Javert would keep that secret.

…if he was still alive.

The elation left him as quickly as it had come, making way for dreadful anxiety. Even with the coat of Madeleine, Valjean felt exposed and vulnerable without his guard. In the years of self-denial he hadn’t noticed this void, but he not only wanted but _needed_ to be close to Javert. If he couldn’t…

Beside him in the big bed, Cosette sighed. At the soft puff, Valjean let out a sigh of his own.

If he couldn’t be with Javert, he would have to draw strength from this girl that now depended on him. Whether at peace within a community or alone and hunted, he would care for her. Tomorrow evening they would be in Montreuil. He would take Cosette to his house and accept whatever they found there, be it Madame Prost, the police or a priest, or nothing at all. All possibilities were equally likely, and all equally out of his hands. 

He slept poorly that night. When the _diligence_ continued its journey an hour before sunrise, he repeatedly dozed off where he sat only to snap awake from hideous nightmares when the carriage jostled them. Yet despite his many fears, Cosette’s presence gave him some measure of comfort and a good deal of distraction. When he was properly awake, the Bocquets did the same.

But by the end of the next day, the _diligence_ had not made it as far as Montreuil-sur-Mer. The sun was already setting as the wheels rattled over the cobbled the streets of Arras, and the driver informed them that with the weather and the damage that the bad roads had inflicted on the carriage, they would not be leaving until noon tomorrow. To the Bocquet couple this was of no consequence, as they lived in Arras, but to Valjean it was a grievous set-back.

He and Cosette rented a room at an inn that Monsieur Bocquet had recommended. It was busy, but the food smelled good and Cosette wolfed down everything that was put before her after Valjean convinced her that, yes, she could really have it all. He only slowed her down to avoid stomach cramps, but otherwise let her eat to her heart’s content. More meat on her skinny frame would do her good.

After dinner, he let Cosette play in their room before tucking her in for the night. The bed was small and he slept in the chair by the hearth. Or slept when he could. The irony of today’s delay had not escaped him.

He was in Arras. He had promised Javert not to go here, but fate had done so regardless of his intentions. He was in Arras, with all of tomorrow morning to kill before the _diligence_ would leave for Montreuil. Would he…?  Javert had begged him not to, but the court house was not two streets from here. Should he…? He should. He had been granted this opportunity for a reason, of that he was certain. With the coat of Madeleine to hide Valjean, surely he could make inquiries without raising suspicion against himself.

He had to know what had happened to the man that bore his face. Even if he could not reveal himself lest he condemned Cosette with him, he still had to know if this innocent soul had been convicted for the crimes of Jean Valjean. If so, perhaps he could find another way to convince the court to review the sentence if not the verdict. And if that was not enough, he would pray for the man’s delivery. He would have done more and maybe he should have done more, but with Cosette’s young life depending on him, he had to make a choice.

It may not come to that, he reminded himself. There was still a chance that Javert was right; that this man had not been convicted at all. That would absolve Valjean of his obligations towards the man, but spawn a whole new risk to himself and Cosette alike. He could not let the child carry the burden of that.

Still, he had to know.

At breakfast, Valjean asked the landlord for writing equipment and drafted a short letter to Madame Prost. He put the letter in his purse with his coins, resolving that if the worst came to the worst, Cosette would have to go to Montreuil without him. Thus prepared, he took the child by the hand and headed down the busy streets, to the court house.

Every step resonated in his head like a hammer stroke. The cold winter air cooled his nervous sweat before it could form beads on his brow. Oblivious of his tension, Cosette tugged at his arm as she skidded over the trodden snow. It made him smile despite the stone in his stomach.

It was still early in the day, but already people were climbing and descending the steps of the courthouse: lawyers, magistrates, and curious people wanting to attend trials and hearings from the public stands.

“What are we going to do, Papa?” asked Cosette.

Valjean started. “What did you say, child?”

The girl glanced up but then quickly looked at the ground. “Sorry, monsieur.”

“No. No, Cosette, do not be sorry!” He dropped to one knee before her and gently lifted her chin to make her look at him. “No, dear child. Please, I would be honoured if you would call me father.”

“But you are my father, aren’t you?” she whispered.  

Valjean beamed at her, feeling hope and warmth where before there had been only dread. “Yes, Cosette, I am you father now.”

The touch of her thin arms as she threw them around his neck very nearly broke him. She let go of him before he could return the hug, but he did hold her by her shoulders as tenderly as he could. Beautiful big eyes stared at him with complete trust and confidence. Under the weight of the girl’s gaze, he almost decided to turn around.

Almost. Come what may, this was something he had to do. “Come, child. I need to ask the people inside something important.”

The marble floor of the main hall echoed every one of the many footsteps that crossed it. Valjean approached the reception desk, well aware of the lump forming in his throat. However, before long it became clear that although he knew exactly which case he needed to ask after, the clerks either could not or did not want to answer him. In despair he mentioned that he was a magistrate. A white lie, but it did help.

“I understand your questions, monsieur, but I would advice you to await the publication of the court’s ruling. However, if you insist, perhaps you can ask that gentleman over there.” The clerk pointed at the back of a man in judge’s robes, who was speaking to a bailiff further down the hall. “He is the judge who presided over the Champmathieu trial. If it’s allowed, he can tell you more,”

“Thank you,” said Valjean while his stomach turned sharply. “Can my daughter wait here for a moment?” The clerk pointed out a few red plush chairs by the wall. Valjean lead Cosette there and settled her and her doll on one of them. Then he pulled his purse from his pocket and gave it to her.

“Cosette, listen carefully.” His mouth opened to give her the instructions he had thought of last night, but then found that he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her down. He couldn’t get arrested now. But he had come too far to turn back. People had seen him. He had no choice now but to follow through. “Hold on to this for me, please. Will you be good and wait here while I go talk to someone?”

Her lips became very thin, but then she nodded. With a last pat on her hand, Valjean got up and turned to find the judge. The men that the clerk had shown him were walking away and he had to jog a few steps to catch up.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, messieurs?” The judge and the bailiff stopped. “Messieurs, please forgive my intrusion.” He turned to elder of the two. “Monsieur le Juge, I was told you might be able to answer a pressing question.”

The judge frowned, but then his face lit up. “But of course, Monsieur Madeleine. How can I be of service?”

Taken off guard by the mention of that name, Valjean stared at the elderly judge. Only then did he recognise the face of Monsieur Bocquet, his travel companion of the last two days. He managed a genuine smile.

“Monsieur, I did not expect— I did not know you were a magistrate?”

The elderly man smirked. “How were you to know when we spoke of many things, but not of business? I hope the inn I recommended was to your liking?”

“Very much so, very much so. But I fear my question does involve a matter of business this time, and a quite serious matter at that. Was I correctly informed that you presided over the trial of a man who was accused of being a parole breaker? Not two weeks ago?”

“Why, yes, the Champmathieu trial. You take an interest in this case?”

Now Valjean was happy that he had not construed elaborate stories in his conversations with the Bocquets. He did not doubt that Bocquet would give Madeleine the information he asked for, but Valjean knew he had to watch that his tread matched what he had spoke of before.

“I do take an interest in it. It is a very complicated chain of events that I will not concern you with, but essentially I would ask after the verdict on behalf of our town’s chief of police, who was supposed to be involved in the trial.”

“Your chief of police?” The judge’s bristly grey brows frowned. “You mean Inspector Javert, do you not? Well, if he had wanted to know the outcome of the trial, he should have been there to testify, shouldn’t he?”

The accusative tone got under Valjean’s skin. “You will forgive him, monsieur. The inspector fell ill and I can attest that he was in no condition to travel.”

“Really? His superiors seem to think his absence had to do with the fact that he suspected another to be this, what was his name again? Jean Vlajean?”

Valjean bit his tongue to keep from correcting his name. “Monsieur, I am well aware of the inspector’s suspicions, since I am the one he suspected.” Blood rose to his face. He should not have said that. Such a risk!

But Bocquet’s frown changed to a look of surprise. “I daresay he has some audacity, that man!”

“Perhaps, monsieur, but he also had the courage to confess as much to my face when he received word that he was wrong. He didn’t need to, as I was not aware of his accusations, but he did.”

“He should have been as courageous to come to my courtroom, monsieur. Only he did not. Much to the chagrin of his superiors, I should add.” Bocquet shook his head. “Illness, you say? I hope for his sake it is serious enough to withstand an inquiry into his conduct.”

Valjean felt the heat rise to his face. “Given that he was mortally ill when I left ten days ago, I cannot even say if he is still alive to face such an inquiry!” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, bringing his flaring temper down. “Forgive me. The inspector is a very able officer and it pains me to hear that his conduct is questioned.”

Bocquet scoffed, but smiled. “A friend of yours, is he?”

The residual heat of his previous outburst hid the renewed blush on Valjean’s cheeks. “An acquaintance,” he amended. “Despite his accusation at my address, I respect him. I know he was very upset about this trial.” 

“And you would set his mind to rest? If he lives, of course.”

Valjean shrugged. What had seemed to good explanation before now sounded sentimental. He really wanted to know if this innocent man was still at risk, but instead he threatened to expose not only himself to the rumour mill, but Javert as well. He had to cut this short and wait for the verdict to be published. There was little he could do to change it then if it was unfavourable, but what choice did he have?

“It was worth trying, given that I have little else to occupy myself with until the _diligence_ leaves,” he said. “I will take up no more of your time, Monsieur le Juge.”

The elderly man pursed his lips. “Allow me to wish you a good journey, Monsieur Madeleine. And if the inspector lives, tell him that he should know that no sensible jury or judge could condemn a man as a parole breaker without sufficient evidence, hmm?”

The words sounded so casual, so mundane, but Valjean was dumbstruck. The marble hall reeled about him as he fought to regain control over his tongue. “You—you mean to say that man was not Jean Valjean?”

“I did not say that. The jury was not convinced that he was, which is not always the same thing.”

“But the prosecutor…?”

“All the prosecutor had was three convicts saying they recognised the man as a fellow inmate. Their word is worth next to nothing, so that was not conclusive evidence.”

Valjean staggered a step as a great burden fell off his shoulders. No evidence, no conviction… “Why didn’t anyone look at his brand?”

“This man was not branded, but the prosecution could not prove that his convict had been branded or not, so that caused quite come confusion. Confusion that the inspector’s testimony was meant to clear up, by the way. Monsieur, are you all right? You are very pale.”

At the mention of the brand, Valjean’s hand had gone up to his chest. Now he forced it to rise further and straighten his cravat instead. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “A… a part of the… the health problem I mentioned yesterday, nothing more.” He closed his eyes to regain his balance and took a deep breath. “Does this mean… that this man may have been Jean Valjean after all?”

The judge shrugged. “If he is, he was lucky. But personally, I do not believe that this man had ever been inside a bagne. I have seen many paroled galley slaves in my courtroom, monsieur, and I can tell you that they carry themselves in a certain way. This man did not.” He nodded. “Yes, that verdict was just. I did not please the prefecture, but the law is made to serve society, not to please the brass.”

Valjean did not hear him anymore. “Justice is done…” he muttered to himself.

“Monsieur?”

“Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking of something Jav— the inspector once said to me. Thank you, monsieur, for indulging me.”

Bocquet waved a hand. “Think nothing of it. I would invite you for tea in my chambers, but I’m afraid I must go now. More cases to try.” He extended his hand. “I wish you a pleasant journey, Monsieur Madeleine, and please say hello to you granddaughter. I must say my wife was particularly taken with her.”

“Thank you,” was all Valjean could manage as he shook the man’s hand. He was more than ever aware of how he stood – always favouring his left leg - and the slight limp that Bocquet must have seen at some point in the last two days, but he could not show that fear. He bid the elderly judge farewell and slowly, with careful steps, he walked back to where Cosette waited for him.

His world had shattered and then rebuild in the course of a conversation. Emptiness went hand in hand with relief as his footsteps echoed on the marble floor. His dreadful conviction that another would suffer for his crimes had proven to be unfounded, but he barely dared to believe this new reality. To the world he was still Monsieur Madeleine. He was still a free man, while to the authorities, the convict Jean Valjean was still at large, his whereabouts unknown. He was safe for another day, another week. Maybe even another year.

Unless the prefecture believed Javert’s initial report.

He stopped in his tracks. Was it wise to go back to Montreuil, where he was easy to find? So far he had risked discovery to save another man’s life, but with the innocent acquitted and Cosette in his care, he now had more reason than ever to stay hidden. In Paris he could do just that.

But did he need to? If Bocquet was right, he had little to fear of the prefecture while they had their guns aimed at another man: Javert. Like ravenous wolves deprived of their kill, they sought to quench their wrath on the one who had let their catch get away. They would tear Javert apart at a formal inquiry and no doubt sacrifice him as atonement for a fault that was in fact their own. Dishonourable dismissal would be the very least they’d force on him, whether or not that was just. Or worse, dishonour his name if he could no longer defend himself against their accusations…

Valjean’s hands clenched into fists until his knuckles turned white. That would not do!

“Cosette?” At this call, the girl jumped off her chair and hurried over to him. She silently handed him his purse, which he put in his pocket. Then he flexed his stiffened fingers and took her hand in his. “Come, child. Let’s go home now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, a chapter that went entirely according to plan! Three more chapters to go. Didn't I say that last time? Yes, I did, but then this thing spawned another :)


	23. By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs* I may come back to this and tweak some things, but since it was either posting now of leaving your guys to wait for at least another week, I thought I'd put it up anyway.
> 
> Edit: Yup, tweaked at least half a dozen typo's. Really stupid ones, too. Sorry about that :/

The morning sun painted a landscape of light and dark in the room. Javert stared at the changing patterns with that dispassionate interest brought on by boredom.  He lay back in the pillows that had been propped up against the headboard. At his side, the bedside table was taken up by a tray with a half-empty mug and an abandoned croissant: the remnants of a light breakfast. The tea in the mug had gone cold. He was thirsty, but he could not bring himself to drink it. Not when he finally felt warm enough to keep from shivering.

He pulled the plaid tighter around his shoulders as the coughs that had been itching in his chest tore free at last. It didn’t hurt as much as it had a week ago, but his lungs never failed to dredge up more mucus. He coughed wetly into a handkerchief, sparing the result a brief glance out of necessity. His lungs’ produce was still a ghastly colour, but since a few days void of dark specks. The housekeeper-nurse had told him that was a great improvement, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. More than two weeks of unremitting fevers had left him physically and mentally exhausted, and still the alternating spells of intense heat and cold ate at his crumbling stamina. Until that stopped, he refused to rejoice at his progress, such as it was.

By day he could control the discomfort, or at least hide the pain and the chills. Each day crept by at a snail’s pace. The woman had given him newspapers and some books to read, but even if he had taken pleasure in that, he lacked the concentration to grasp the meaning of the words. Even so he had tried several times. Without exception he had tired and fallen asleep before making it to the bottom of the second page.

So that was how he spent most of the days: dozing. Never long, never deep, but every so often his eyes would close off their own accord. When he opened them again, he would find that the shadows on the wall had moved; sometimes an inch or two, and sometimes several hand spans. For want of a clock, they marked the progress of time for him while daylight lasted.

The days he could deal with. The nights, however…

Once the sun had set, the cold in his bones wrecked his body. For endless hours he would shiver and shake, until from one moment to the next the fires of Hell consumed him and he was drenched in sweat. Every night. Every day. A continuous cycle, filled with agony and freakish nightmares from which he would wake in mindless panic. Without fail, cold touches would guide him back to reality and in the moment between sleeping and waking, Javert dared to hope that he was not alone. But every time, it was only the woman who sat by his side, never _him_.

Never Valjean.

Javert resented her for it, although it was hardly her fault. On the contrary. She catered to his every need, bringing him food and drink and cleaning up after him in ways that embarrassed him to consider. And all without a single complaint. She hadn’t even batted an eye at the expletives he had uttered while she patiently untangled and washed the matted mess that two weeks of being bedridden had made of his long hair. By all accounts, he should be grateful to her. He should. He was. But that didn't change the fact that even her best behaviour grated on his nerves. And his on hers.

The shadow on the wall had moved a few more inches when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He paid them no attention. Only when there was a knock on the door did he look up. He opened his mouth to reply, but the door swung open and Madame Prost let herself in before he could. With impudence that did not befit her station, she strode over to the bedside table and observed the tray.

“I take it breakfast was not to your taste, inspector?” Sarcasm disguised as a question for the sake of politeness. That was a habit of hers, he had noticed.

“The bread was stale and the tea cold,” he growled, looking away.

“You mean you nodded off before you could finish it. I will bring you some more.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It wasn’t a question, inspector.”

He sighed irritably. “If you must, at least bring me _hot_ tea this time.”

“No,” she said just as curtly. “I told you, no hot beverages until the fever breaks and you can hold a mug without trembling.”

“Madame, I am not a child!”

“Then stop acting like one.”

Riled by the insult, Javert pushed himself up to retort, but froze when she pressed her hand to his forehead without asking permission.

“Your tea shall be warm, inspector. Well warm, but not hot.” With that, she picked up the tray and carried it out.

Javert let himself fall back against the pillows, rubbing his temples to keep the increasing headache at bay. Damn that woman! He did not expect her to treat him with the same devotion as she did her master, but for Heaven’s sake, was a bit of common courtesy too much to ask for? She would not have dared to speak to him in such a way if Valjean had been here!

…nor would she have had to, because Valjean would have coaxed him into finishing his breakfast an hour ago…

He pulled up the covers as a lone shiver travelled through his limbs, then grimaced when he caught himself huddling up. Pathetic how the mere thought of Valjean could make him so vulnerable. Unacceptable! Loneliness had been his mode of existence since childhood. People had come and gone, but never had he mourned the loss or departure of another.

But when Valjean had walked out the door - at Javert’s own instigation, no less - Javert had pushed away the memory of his dream-self screaming for Valjean not to leave him. He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t called Valjean back. He had felt hollow ever since.

That emptiness wasn’t new to him. He had always born it with him, but before Valjean, he had never known that this void could be filled. Now he did. Too briefly. Valjean’s hands, his lips, his touch; Javert had felt them, but now they were lost again, possibly forever… Another shiver ripped through him. For the first time in his lonely life, that loneliness hurt.

The shrill noise of the door bell intruded his cocoon of misery. Hearing the front door open, Javert wrapped himself up tighter in anticipation. Apparently Valjean had left instructions for that damn doctor to visit regularly until he had recovered, because this would be the third time in the past week that the obnoxious little man showed up. Except that when the door closed again and the woman’s footsteps retreated to the kitchen, no one came up the stairs. He counted to ten. Twice. Still nothing. Relieved, he leaned back and allowed his eyes to slip shut.

The next thing he was aware of was a ‘thock’ as something landed on the bedside table.

“Hmm?”

“Your tea, inspector,” the woman’s voice said.

He turned his head and looked at the blue-glazed mug beside him. The faint wisps of steam above it were promising, but reaching out for it would take effort. Lifting it from the table to his lap would take even more. Too much. Damn this weakness!

When he didn’t move, Madame Prost tucked the covers down to his waist. “Your hands,” she ordered. After a moment’s hesitation, he worked his hands free from the folds of the plaid and cupped them as she lowered the warm mug in their grasp. “Shall I help you?”

“No need, madame.”

She did not believe him, but neither did she press. “Do try to drink it all before it goes cold, won’t you?” 

Javert did not answer. He would not make an empty promise, not even to her, but the truth would only start another argument. Her dejected sigh told him she knew that, too. Still he knew she wouldn’t try to force the drink on him, not if she didn’t want to end up spilling the tea all over herself again.

Eventually he brought the mug to his lips and drank a few sips, hoping they would ease the tickle rising at the back of this throat. The tea was warm enough to feel good, but the mug too heavy to keep it up long. When his hands began to tremble, he held it out to the woman. She took it from him and waited for him to retake his hold. But Javert shook his head.

“No more…”

She set the mug down with more force than necessary. “If you will not eat or drink for yourself, then do it for _him_ ,” she bit. “It will break his heart to find you in such poor health when he gets back.”

Javert gave her a long look. It was obvious who she spoke of, and it did not even cross his mind to lie to her. “He will not be coming back, madame.”

“What?” Sudden disbelief etched her face. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

He could see her quiver as an unholy fury rose in her eyes. “He would never!” she spat. “He is a good man! He would not abandon the people of this town!” She leaned forward, one knee on the mattress to get in his face. “You were the one who convinced him to leave,” she hissed. “What lies did you tell him?”

Javert pushed himself as far upright as he could without losing balance. “You already _know_ what I told him, madame.”

“Really? How could I?”

“You forget that I am a spy. I have listened at my fair share of keyholes, too.”

Her gaze flitted across his. “You accuse me of eavesdropping?”

“I am.” It was a wild guess, but people would be people and in his experience, most people were morbidly curious. “Are you implying that you did not?”

The woman stilled, her chin trembling with rage as she stared into his face. Then she cracked a wry, telling smile. “Very well. I have overheard you tell him to go to Paris.”

“Then you have your answer, madame.”

Her fury dissipated, but what came over her in its place was far more worrisome.

“I asked him, but Monsieur Madeleine never confirmed to me where he was going. However, I do know he packed too lightly for a journey to Paris. I also know that he resigned as mayor, citing health reasons, and that he had a notary draft him a last will and testament, which he signed the day before he left. So, inspector, I want you to be honest with me: is Monsieur Madeleine dead?”

Javert’s stiffened, his breathing reduced to shallow gasps. “No. He cannot be. I sent him to Paris to save his life, not to end it…”

“But is that where he has gone?”

“You have reason to believe that he went… elsewhere?”

“The valise he took with him was nothing more than an overnight bag. He got on the diligence to Paris, but—“

 _Oh God…_ “Arras,” Javert gasped.

“Arras? Again Arras! What is in that place?” she demanded. “Monsieur was dead set on going there in the middle of the night, never saying what he had to do there or when he would be back. Why?”

Javert rested his head against the headboard. His lungs burned as if someone was throttling him.

“Inspector, tell me! Why was he going to Arras?”

“To die,” he whispered. “He went there… to die…”

The world spun like it hadn’t in days. He shouldn’t have send Valjean to Paris. It was not safe for him in Montreuil, but giving him free range to travel had been an even bigger risk. Too big, in hindsight. He shouldn’t have... There was every chance that Valjean hadn’t gone to Montfermeil, or Paris. What if the woman was right? What if Valjean was indeed already dead?

_Valjean, what did you do? Where did you go? I said I would find you, and I will! I swear I will, even if you have gone to the deepest circles of—_

“No you don’t!”

A sharp slap in his face brought him back from the darkness had opened beneath him. He took a deep breath and another, gasping and coughing when his body writhed in painful convulsions. He longed for strong, able hands to steady him, but instead thin claws dug into his arms.

“Who is Valjean?” the woman’s voice cut through his senses. “Why do you call Monsieur Madeleine ‘Valjean’?”

“I never…”

“You did! You cried that name in your dreams, and then again just now. And every time you did, he responded! Why?”

Javert stared at her in blank confusion. “Because that is his name…. his real name…” When he said it, he realised he never should have. His shoulders sagged. _God, Jean, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…_

It was of little consolation to him that the woman didn’t look surprised. “Two identities, then?” She swallowed had, but let go of his arms. “So that is what I saw. Calm and correct one moment, then passionate and protective the next when…” She shook her head, face twisting as if she was in pain. “Don’t let your tea get cold, inspector.”

The door slammed shut behind her. The loud noise shot shards of pain through his head, but he deserved that. So did his head. If he hadn’t let fever and exhaustion rob him of his senses, he would have spun her a yarn, telling her he didn’t know when Valjean was coming back. Then she would have had both an answer and a reason to follow her orders a while longer.

Because now she knew Madeleine wasn’t coming back, what was to keep her from leaving her uncooperative patient to his own devices? Human kindness? Javert knew the woman harboured no kindness for him, and neither could he afford to pay her for her services.

Any moment now, he would hear her slam the front door behind her, too. And then what? He reckoned he could make it through the rest of the day and another night without having to leave the room. After that, regardless of his condition, he would have to drag himself to his own lodgings and into work.

Work… He hadn’t worked in two weeks, and those who do not work, do not get paid. Perhaps what little savings he had would be enough to cover these two weeks of overdue rent. Assuming his landlady hadn’t turned him out and sold his belongings already. If so, he would have to… Try to…

He was not aware that sleep claimed him, nor did he question the situation as he walked the streets of Paris, searching for green eyes that he couldn’t find. Every lead was a dead end, every witness unreliable. He searched the houses, the alleys, the sewers. He tried different names, even a number, but to no avail. In the end, he came to bridge over dark, forbidding waters. He leaned over the edge and gazed into the abyss.

_Is that where I will find you, Valjean?_

There came no reply. He raised his eyes to the heavens, but there was no light to guide his way. Lost, he looked down. Below the waves he saw a faint shimmer, the sole light in the darkness around him. He leaned closer to see it, to capture it. Closer, closer still, until he fell, fell, and at last hit the water.

He woke with a gasp. The darkness evaporated in an instance, but he could still feel the cold water running down his face. Not a river, but droplets. He touched them, almost expecting his hand to come away red with blood. He was wrong.

“Just a nightmare, inspector. Nothing more.”

Regaining his bearings, he stared blankly at the figure beside him. “Madame…?”

“Yes. Sorry to disappoint you. I would have let you sleep, but you were calling his name again.” She retrieved a cloth from his face, folded it and gently dabbed the cold fabric to the sweaty skin of his neck. “I also brought you some soup for lunch.”

“You… did not leave?”

Her brows arched. “Did you expect me to? I’m a housekeeper, inspector, but I’m also a nurse, and nurses have a code of conduct to uphold.”

While his mind adjusted to reality, his limited attention caught the lines on her face. Instinctively he studied them, finding the same subtle signs that had led him to believe she had been lying about eavesdropping. This wasn’t about codes of conduct alone.

“… you are doing this for him,” he concluded.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she gave shrug. “If professional honour isn’t enough to convince you that I will not let your die, you will be pleased to know that Monsieur Madeleine paid me well enough before he left. It wouldn’t do to take the money and not perform the service he expects in return.”

“He may never find out either way,” Javert said as she helped him to sit up straight.

“Oh, he will. I may never see him again, but if he did go to Paris and you do not come to find him, he will know that I failed.”

“Unless he is indeed dead already…”

“Then at least he will not have died of heartbreak because I failed to nurse you back to health,” she snapped. Her voice had quivered, but her hands were steady as she wrapped the bowl in a napkin and placed it in his lap.

Javert leaned back to get away from the smell that crept into his nose. “Take that away, madame.”

“No, you will eat. You promised to be with him, and I will not allow you to let him down.”

He scoffed a laugh. “What is it to you if I break my promise? You received your payment already.”

Her eyes and nostrils flared, and her hand twitched at her side.

“I should have struck you for that! If you hadn’t been so ill, I would have, policeman or not!” She shook a furious finger in his face. “Not all servants are loyal because they are _paid_ to be loyal, inspector! Monsieur Madeleine— No, Monsieur _Jean_ has always treated me well. The work I do for him, I do with pleasure! When he left, he asked me to look after you, and so I will. I only accepted the money because I have bills to pay like everyone else. If he hadn’t paid me, that would have made no difference. Not because I like looking after an ungrateful patient, but because helping you will make _him_ happy! And that—that is enough for me.”

When her anger ebbed way and she recomposed herself, Javert slowly raised the soup bowl and took a sip. That seemed to satisfy her and she did not speak again. In fact, her eyes were looking everywhere but in his direction.

Javert observed her. She had meant what she said, that much was certain. But there had been an undercurrent in her tone that he couldn’t place. Not quite despair, yet something close to it. A tone he had heard before, in the line of duty. However, it took him two more thoughtful sips to piece together the exact circumstances.

“Ah yes, of course,” he muttered. “ _Crime_ _passionnel_. I should have known.”

“You were saying, inspector?”

He lowered the heavy bowl back in his lap. “You are infatuated with him, aren’t you?”

For a moment she sat motionless. Then she turned to look at him. “No,” she said. “I’m not.” Javert raised a brow in disbelief, but she did not look away. “It is not a matter of infatuation, inspector. I love Monsieur Jean. I have for a long time.”

“But you are—“

“Out of his league?” She laughed. “Of course I am! I never expected him to return my feelings, not in a million years. But love doesn’t need to be returned to be real. It is there, whether the object of your affection notices it or not.” She hugged herself for a moment, and then tilted her head. “As _you_ well know.”

“Hardly, madame,” Javert said curtly, hoping the glow of fever would hide his blush. “I do not deal with sentimentality.”

Her mouth fell open. “You really are a piece of work! You think I have no eyes, no ears? You think I didn’t understand what happened while you’ve been here? You _love_ him!”

She could not have hit him harder if she had used an iron rod. Javert knew that he felt a great many things for Valjean. Respect and admiration, yes. Attraction, too, but… “…not love!”

“Oh, come off it! Dying men do not cry out for mere acquaintances, nor do they calm at the touch of just anyone.” She lifted the bowl of soup from his legs and held it under his nose. “ _He_ can make you eat and drink even when you are unconscious, but since he left, you have let yourself waste away.”

“But—“

“Don’t you dare tell me that isn’t so!”

It was. He hadn’t meant to, but…“…that does not make it lo—“

“Call it what you will, inspector, but that doesn’t change what it is! You love him! And he…” She stopped abruptly, knuckles turning white as she gripped the bowl tighter. A single tear escaped her lashes and fell down her cheek. “He loves you _._ And he needs you to keep your promise to find him. So, eat!”

Javert heard her, but none of it registered. His mind was still coping with one little word that he had never expected to use in any connection to himself. The word was as alien as the concept itself. A thing of fantasies and dreams; or if it was real, it happened to others, not to him. But his heart, that wild thing that Valjean had released, recognised it and linked the word to the unfamiliar emotions that filled him. Even the terrible void that Valjean’s departure had left was contributed to this alien notion. Could it be that—?

An off-white rectangle popping up in his vision started him from his reverie. “What is that?” he asked.

“It is a letter. A policeman delivered it this morning, saying that Monsieur Jean had told him to bring any messages for you to this house.”

Javert regarded the letter. There were not official stamps of the police force that he could distinguish, but his breath hitched when he thought he recognised a familiar hand in the loops that spelled the address of Montreuil’s police station.

“Madame, that letter is important!” He made to grasp it, but she pulled it away.

“I’m sure it is, inspector. But you will not get to read it until you finished the soup.” She tucked the letter away and pushed the bowl back in his hands.

“That is blackmail, madame!”

“No, inspector. That’s lunch.”

He looked at the bowl with disgust. What little he’d had of its content had tasted bland and didn’t invite to have more of it. But if that letter really was from his patron, he had to know what it contained. With suitable reluctance, he lifted the bowl to his lips.

Drinking the soup was not as quick as he would have liked. It wasn’t broth, but a mash of cooked vegetables that was only just fluid enough to be drinkable. A spoon might have been faster, but his hands weren’t steady enough to use one without spilling, and he’d be damned if he let the woman feed him. So he soldiered on, grudgingly accepting that she supported the bowl when he could barely hang on to it.

He had downed just over half of the soup when his stomach began to protest. “Enough. That’s enough.” He pushed the bowl away, but instead of giving him a lecture, the woman quirked a smile.

“That was more than you ate all of yesterday,” she said, setting the bowl aside and handing him the letter. “Now you have earned this.”

Javert bit back on a snarl as he snatched the paper from her fingers. His arms were too tired now, so let the letter rest on the covers while he broke the seal with his thumb.

“Will you need help with that, inspector?”

“I have good eyes and no desire to feed your curiosity, madame.”

“I’m not surprised.” She began to pack up the tray. “Feel free to change your mind at any time.”

Javert ignored her in favour of unfolding and scanning the letter to confirm his suspicions. It was a single page. In the passing he caught sight of words that predicted no good even out of context, but it was the elaborate signature at the bottom that made his heart sink.

“Madame? Madame!”

The woman stopped in the doorway, already on her way out. “Yes, inspector?”

“Get me a pen and paper. Ink, not a pencil!” The letter in his lap tipped as he moved a leg. “And something to write on, damnit!”

“Calm down, calm down,” she sighed. “That letter spent the morning in my apron, so I doubt it will evaporate while I fetch you Monsieur’s writing kit.”

Javert would have called her back on her impudence, but the letter was more important now. Now he was certain who it was from, he read it word by word.

 

_Javert,_

_It has come to my attention that the trial of Jean Valjean in Arras was a fiasco. I was informed by Juge Bocquet of the Court of Assizes that there was too little evidence to convict the man of more than petty theft, because the police officer who was supposed to underwrite the prosecutor’s circumstantial evidence and make the case had failed to appear._

_I trust I do not need to express the Prefect’s severe disappointment at this outcome, or my own. Not only has a parole breaker and second offender been allowed to escape justice: as you well know, the very principles of the law prohibit that a man can be tried twice for the same crime. Should this man be caught at a later date for other trespasses, he can never again be convicted to the just sentence of a parole breaker._

_Voices within the prefecture call for an official inquiry into your conduct, on charges of having purposefully neglected your duty to testify to further your insistence on your original suspect. I cannot ignore these voices, but I can say that I have know you these past years as a dedicated professional and I have full confidence that you have a sound reason for your actions._

_On a related note, I should inform you that a closer inspection on my part has brought to light that your report on M. Madeleine may not have been examined as closely as it should have been. Your allegations against him as an ex-convict, whether he is Jean Valjean or another, are indeed circumstantial but not implausible and merit further investigation. Should he be what you say he is, a confirmation thereof would most certainly be in your favour in the event that a formal inquiry is unavoidable._

_As you can understand, I should like to receive a word of explanation from you at the earliest before making my recommendations to the Prefect._

_Yours sincerely,_

_J. Chabouillet_

 

It cost Javert tremendous effort to not skip over words or punctuation and he had to reread every sentence twice to make sure he understood what it said. But once he had come to the end, beads of sweat ran down his temples and it was all he could do to keep his roiling stomach in check.

No official stamps, no police seals, no rank beneath the signature: it was a personal letter, not an official communiqué. That meant there would be no copy of it in the police files. Thank God for small graces. As for the letter itself…

Javert ran a hand over his face. Chabouillet had made it very clear that his protégé was in deep trouble. That he’s given Javert a chance to explain himself had nothing to do with kindness and everything with saving face. More than anything, Chabouillet needed a confirmation that his trust in Javert had been justified. If not, Javert would lose his patron’s support, and his career – his life! - was over.

His snorts of self-disgust slowly grew out to a low, cold chuckle. What difference would it make if he explained himself to Chabouillet? His career was over at any rate: if this story had made it up to the prefecture’s upper echelons, the issuance of formal inquiry was a foregone conclusion, and so was the outcome thereof. Like it said in the letter, he could only clear his name if he gave the Committee of Inquiry a bigger fish. A very specific fish…

Sunlight touched the end of his bed. The bright reflection on the polished wood was a welcome distraction for his eyes while thoughts tumbled through his head, demanding attention he didn’t have.

All he had to do to save himself was to give them Jean Valjean, by any other name. Chabouillet’s instructions to that end were simple, but nothing was simple when it came to Valjean. Nothing was simple, period. His head ached and he could not think. If there was a solution, he did not see it. Even if he did, what could he do in this stage? No, let them issue that inquiry. He would be questioned under oath, but he would stay silent throughout, neither speaking in favour of himself nor against Valjean. If he did not speak, he could not betray Valjean again.

_Justice is not served by silence._

A voice like ice crystals in spring cast clarity in his fever-logged mind. The blinding light shining in his eyes made him see. Colours faded into each other and there she was, perched on the footboard like a beautiful bird ready to take flight. Wings spread out to all sides like veils of pearl, while her golden hair fluttered in an imperceptible breeze. Light as bright as the sun itself shone through the blindfold that adorned her face. She smiled.

 _Silence cannot clear a man’s name_ , she said.

He sighed. _Neither can words if Valjean has already turned himself in_ , he thought. If the court had already corrected its mistake…

_Then wouldn’t the letter have said so?_

He started and let his gaze run over the letter again. He barely recognised the individual words, but his memory filled in what his eyes couldn’t see: Chabouillet called the trial a fiasco. The accused hadn’t been convicted as Jean Valjean, but _neither had anyone else!_

Trembling with relief, he looked at his angel just in time to see her fade. It did not matter. He knew what to do now.

Oblivious of the world around him, Javert began to compile the letter he would send to his patron. He closed his eyes as words, snippets and sentences drifted in and out of his mind, scratched out and rewritten by an invisible pen, then shifting position until he lost track of them and started over. And over. He knew what he had to say, but without paper to capture the words, they kept slipping through his grasp.

A sudden a cold hand on his face startled him.

“Inspector, are you all right? You’re white as a sheet!”

He blinked a few times to get his focus back. “Madame…” He saw her empty hands. “You brought the pen and paper?”

“I did,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “but I don’t think it is a good idea to let you have them.” She touched his neck with the back of her hand. “Are you cold again?”

Javert grimaced, stifling a cough. “Even if I am, this letter cannot wait. I need that writing kit.”

“What you need, inspector, is a few hours of sleep. When you wake, I will bring the kit back up for you to write your letter.”

“This is not up for debate, madame.”

She glared at him. “You are right. It’s not. Now lie down.”

“Not yet.” He turned his hand up. “Pen and paper.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. With a sigh, she snapped it shut again and bit her lip. “You know something, inspector? I have cared some stubborn patients in my time, but you trump them all.”

“It thrills me to hear that,” he growled. “Now, the writing kit?”

“You really aren’t going to take a moment’s rest until I let you do this, are you?”

He only raised his upturned hand in reply.  

With visible apprehension, Madame Prost got up and moved the tray she had brought in from the nightstand to Javert’s lap. It was a big tray, containing a few sheets of paper, a pen and an inkstand.

“I doubt Monsieur Jean would have given in,” she muttered.

“He would have,” Javert assured her. “The urgency of this letter is for his sake.”

She took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. “Very well. I will hold this,” she said, flipping the top from the inkwell. “You write what you need to write.”

Javert picked up the pen. It was not heavy, but his fingers had difficulty to get a good hold. When he was sure it would not lose grip all too easily, he dipped the pen in the inkwell and began to write.

With his concentration lapsing at intervals, he drew on his years of systematic letter writing to get him through the motions. Place, date, address. The date was supplied by Madame Prost as he had no concept of time anymore, and the address was what he hoped was still his private residence. The dipped the pen again and automatically began to letter with a large ‘Monseigneur’, as he did in all his letters to the prefecture. Chabouillet had made a point of omitting such formalities, but then Chabouillet’s letter had a demand, whereas this would be an apology. For a personal letter, such a formal start was as good as a reverent bow on paper. And so he continued.

His hand shook more and more with every sentence. He muttered the words to himself, reading back what he had written without truly seeing the letters. More than once he had to cross out a word that he had misplaced or misspelled. It didn’t make for a neat letter, but he didn’t have the energy to care. It was tiresome enough to lose his place every three words.

By the time he started on what he meant to be the last paragraph, his handwriting was nearly illegible and he had to take great care with every loop his pen made. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Madame Prost suggested he should take a break, but he declined. If he stopped now, he wouldn’t start again. 

Then, at long, long last, he scribbled a humble greeting and his signature. The latter was barely recognisable, but it would have to do. The pen clattered on the tray as he leaned back in the pillows, panting as if he had been fighting with criminals, not words.

“Are you sure you want to send this off, inspector?”

“No. I need to read it back first. Make sure I didn’t leave anything out.” Or had written something that would undermine his credibility.

“Will you not want it copied to a new page? Without the errors?”

He huffed. “It will take more energy than I have to read it back, let alone write it again. Leave it. Let them see I’m not exaggerating the account of my condition.”

“I very much doubt the severity of your condition could be exaggerated, inspector. Allow me.” She set the tray aside and picked up the letter.

He waited for her to give it to him, but to his surprise, she began to read it. “Madame! That is private correspondence!”

“Which you wrote in my presence and I could read while you were working. Now you say you need to read it back, but your eyes are red and you look like you already have a massive headache. So I will read it back to you.”

And consequently learn the full contents of the letter? No! In a last attempt to keep it from her, he sneered that he’d be surprised if she could read. Her only reply was a cold stare, and the words he had written in the last hour.

 _“_ Monseigneur, having received your letter, I can do nothing but offer my sincerest apologies. I had every intention of attending the trial and identifying Jean Valjean before the court, but a severe illness of the lungs detained me. I have not been able to resume my duties since.” She paused. “You forgot an accent here,” she said as she reached for the pen, dipped it in the inkwell and added a tiny line before Javert could say anything. He let her.

“As I recall little of those days, I fear that my testimony, if I could have given it, would have been useless to the court. I have no other excuse for my conduct in this.” She picked up the pen again, this time to add or complete a letter. Maybe a word. As long as she didn’t alter the meaning, he had no reason to protest.

“Concerning my report on Monsieur Madeleine,” her voice tensed, “I must confess a grave mistake. You are right to conclude that my suspicions are all circumstantial and can be explained in other ways than this man having served time in a bagne…? Inspector?”

This was what he had been afraid of. He sighed wearily. Too late now… “Read on, madame. You will understand.”

She cleared her throat and continued. “There is no evidence to support these suspicions. The only reason I informed the prefecture and yourself of them, was that Monsieur Madeleine had slighted me in a professional altercation. There is no excuse for this gross misbehaviour. I reported myself to the mayor, but he would not dismiss me because he has resigned due to health issues since. My illness has kept me from requesting my dismissal with the new mayor or handing in my resignation.”

Javert frowned as he listened. Usually he was far more eloquent in his letters, not to mention precise about grammar. “Is there a way to correct that sentence?” he muttered.

“Hmm, no. Not unless you let me copy the letter to a new page.”

 “Then leave it. Go on.”

“Monseigneur,” she continued, “my allegations against Monsieur Madeleine were unjustified. I made a false report. I acted out of vengeance, nothing more. Since Monsieur Madeleine did not act accordingly while he could, I humbly submit myself to whatever penalty you deem appropriate. Your humble servant…” Madame Prost lowered the letter. “Inspector, _did_ you make a false report?”

Javert closed his eyes to avoid her gaze, and himself. “Every word in that letter is true, madame. Every word but that.”

“So he _is_ …?”

“He is Jean Valjean, and an ex-convict.” He pried his eyes opened to glance at her. She looked stricken. “…I’m sorry.”

The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of her breath. For a moment he feared she had begun to cry, but when he looked, he saw that she was blowing gently over the paper to dry the last of the wet ink.

“You cannot help what he is,” she said as she carefully folded the letter. “He was a good man while I didn’t know about his past. I’m sure he is still a good man now that I do.”

The idea sounded preposterous, yet extremely logical at the same time. It was beyond him how she could have thought of it. Although… “Is that because you love him?”

“They say that love makes blind, yes. But I like to think that if Monsieur Jean was not a good man, he could not have won the hearts of this whole town.” She gave him a wry smile. “Or that of the most correct policeman in all of France.”

He had no sensible response to that. “The letter…”

“I will take care of that,” she said, urging him to lie down at last. “Should I deliver it to the police station?”

“Yes. Have them send it to Paris… with the next dispatch.”

“I will do it right away. It should take no more than an hour.” That was fine with him. He wouldn’t be awake to notice her absence anyway.

But once Madame Prost had left, the numbness of sleep did not come as quickly as he had expected. Every time he drifted off, he was jolted awake by his conscience bearing down on him. He had done the unthinkable: he had lied to his superior, to his patron. He, Javert, had _lied_.

 _You lied_ , echoed the angel on the footboard. _But was it really untrue?_

 _I was not mistaken. My report was not false,_ he answered without speaking.

 _You reported a criminal posing as mayor_. _Was that report true?_

It was. And at the same time, it wasn’t. While Valjean was a fugitive and had risen to mayor under an alias, Javert could not bring himself to call the kind man Valjean had become a criminal. But by law, that was what the man was. Both statements were true, just as both were untrue. 

_An alternative interpretation to achieve justice, because the most obvious interpretation is unjust… Yet both are the truth. Can that be?_

The angel only smiled at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not to sure about how it turned out, so feedback is welcome as usual :)


	24. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when you try to cram too much into one chapter? Exactly: TWO chapters! So to make up for the long wait, you guys can have yet another extra chapter ;P

By the time that the _diligence_ from Arras halted in the main square of Montreuil-sur-Mer, the sun had already set and the first stars appeared in the clear night sky. Only four passengers had dared to brave the journey in this cold. Two young men lingered in the relative warmth of the carriage, waiting for the driver to lower their luggage from the roof, while the older gentleman got out as soon as he could, stretched his stiff legs and then lifted a small valise and a little girl from the coach. 

Cosette had fallen asleep in the last half mile, and Valjean attempted to settle her on his hip without waking her. Sleepily, she draped her arms around his neck as he carried her across the square at as brisk a pace as he dared on the icy pavement. He would rather have hired a cab, even if his house was only three streets from here, but the square was empty but for the _diligence_ and it was too cold to wait. 

“Where are we going, Papa?” Cosette muttered. 

“Home,” he answered, a little short of breath for walking as fast as he did. “It’s just a little further.” 

She hid her face in his hair. He had told her repeatedly where he was taking her, but she kept asking, as if she did not dare to believe him. He hoisted her a little higher, holding her tightly. He felt her quivering.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” he said kindly, but Cosette shook her head. “Oh, you are not cold? Are you frightened, then?” 

She didn’t answer, only pressed her face closer. 

“You do not need to be frightened, child,” Valjean said. “The house is warm, and you will have a room to yourself and” 

He trailed off as his hopes failed him and the stone in his stomach grew heavier still. How could he paint her a picture of the life he wanted to give her, if he wasn’t sure that he could? This morning he had been so resolute about going back to Montreuil – for Cosette, for Javert, for himself - but now he dreaded the moment the house would come into view. 

What if the police had found his trail and was waiting there to arrest him? Maybe that sergeant had gotten suspicious of him, came to find Javert and had somehow discovered the truth. Maybe Juge Bocquet had recognised the tell-tale limp after all and had sent a courier ahead of the _diligence._ Little Cosette would be an orphan again, and Javert could not help without incriminating himself. If he was even alive…

His pace slowed. What if he was too late? What if they would come home to a house that was dark and empty? He trusted Madame Prost, but sometimes life isn’t fair. Sometimes God takes, not as punishment, but because that is how it has to be. What if Javert was meant to die? What if Jean Valjean was meant to be recaptured and Cosette to be abandoned? What if they were meant to die alone after all?

 The bitter cold stung his eyes as moisture that may have been tears froze on his lashes. Instinctively, he muttered a prayer to the sky. He did not expect to be heard, but desperate enough to try anyway.

The dark street was lit only by the crescent moon, the occasional lamp outside a house and what little candlelight shone through the thick curtains. Snow had drifted against the walls and steps, pushed up further where brooms had cleared the pavement. The cobbles were not as slippery there, but Valjean only slowed further. The child on his hip was getting heavy, or maybe it was his heart that weighed on him. 

From here, he could already see the louver over his door jutting out from the façade some hundred paces down the street. The lamp beneath it was not lit, but that might not mean anything. Unlike some of his neighbours, he did not like waste and only had it lit when clouds or new moon left the streets darker than usual. 

But inevitably he reached his house, and saw the windows. They were dark. The curtains of the parlour were not drawn, nor where those of his study. No glow of candles or a warm hearth. Empty. As empty as he had feared. He swallowed hard, silently summoning the courage to go in and face that fear. 

He let the valise fall on the steps as he searched for his key. The lock turned smoothly and the door squeaked only a little as he pushed it open. The vestibule beyond was even darker than the world outside. His heart sank deeper still.

“Go on in,” he said to Cosette as he put her down over the threshold and hauled his valise in from the snow. He following the girl in and closed the door. It shut with an ominous clack. 

“Papa? It’s so dark. I’m scared...”

“No need, child. Let me make some light.” His gloves hands fumbled with the tinderbox on the shelf by the coat rack to strike a flame to the sulphur match with which to light the candle beside it. On the second try, a tiny flame groped the wick and a warm light filled their corner of the vestibule as it grew. “See?” he said to Cosette. “Darkness always yields to the light. But best keep on your coat until I get a fire g—“

 “Who is there!” 

Valjean started. The kitchen door swung open and bright light spread out around the silhouette in the doorway. At his side, Cosette clung to his leg in despair. 

“Madame,” the girl sobbed, hiding behind him as the figure approached. “Oh, Papa, it’s _Madame_!”

“Monsieur?” the distinctly female figure asked. 

“Please don’t let her get me, Papa!”

“Oh, but—“

Befuddled, Valjean looked down at Cosette, then back at the equally shocked woman.

“Papa, _please_!”

“ _Monsieur Jean!_ ”

Before he could get a word in, Valjean was caught by two pairs of arms. Between a little girl pressing against his legs and a grown woman launching herself at his neck, he could barely keep standing. 

“Ladies, ladies! Please calm yourself,” he laughed for sheer nervousness. With one hand he reached behind him to comfort the child. “It is all right, Cosette. It is only Madame Prost, my housekeeper.” Who immediately released him and stepped back.

“I apologise, monsieur. I was just so surprised! The inspector said—Oh, hello there?” She crouched down and beamed a warm smile at the little face that cautiously peered around Valjean’s waist. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to.”

“Madame, please meet Cosette, my granddaughter.”

“Your…? Monsieur, you never said you had a family?”

Valjean sighed. It was time to become Monsieur Madeleine again. “My daughter didn’t want anything to do with me. Not until she died did I learn that she had a child of her own. A fatherless child, left with people who abused her.” He put his arm around Cosette and gently squeezed her shoulder. “This was why I had to leave so suddenly.”

The smile on the woman’s face tensed and she looked at him for too long and with too much scrutiny to be casual. He found that neither Madeleine nor Valjean could meet that gaze, so he didn’t. After an awkward moment, he noted with relief that she had turned her attention back to Cosette.

“You must be hungry after such a long trip,” she said to the girl. “Would you like some hot soup and bread?”

Cosette glanced up Valjean in silent question. He nodded at her, giving her a gentle prod. Cautiously, Cosette took a step forward. “Yes, Madame,” she whispered. 

“Why, then do come into the kitchen. I’ve got the stove on and soup on the boil. Just the thing for a cold night.” She extended her hand in invitation. “Shall we?” When Cosette tentatively accepted, Madame Prost led her down the hall. 

“Madame?” Valjean interrupted them. 

They stopped and Madame Prost looked back at him, her expression so blank that it drained his ability to articulate. All he could manage was a helpless nod at the stairs and the dark landing they led to.

“He is asleep, monsieur,” she answered. “Leave him be for now. He has had an arduous day.” 

“Arduous?” One of those words that Madeleine used. It could mean anything but implied the worst. “What happened?”

“He tried to save your life. The effort took more of his strength than he could spare, but that didn’t stop him.”

Valjean gaped, unable to work out which of the thousand new questions to ask first. He stared after her as she walked with Cosette towards the kitchen. “But then what _happened_?”

“Not now, monsieur. First you should get warm and have a proper meal.”

He stood dumbstruck. He was used to her occassionally patronising tone, but not such impudence. With frantic determination, he all but ripped his coat off, grabbed the candle and headed for the stairs. Long, terrible days of uncertainty had taken a higher toll on his nerves than he had dared to admit even to himself. Until moments ago, he had feared he would find his guard dead. She said he was asleep, but with such insinuations to follow, he did not dare to trust her words until he saw Javert alive with his own eyes.

“Papa!”

Halfway up the stairs, he stopped.

“Papa, don’t go!” Cosette cried.

He closed his eyes, fingers gripping the banister until he did not feel them anymore. “I will be right down, child. I won’t be far,” he told her as gently as he could.

“P-papa?” 

Turning around, he saw the little girl – _his_ little girl – waiting by the foot of the stairs. Her big, wide eyes reminded him that she was a frightened child in an unfamiliar house, in the company of people she hardly knew. With all his might he wanted to run up the last of the steps, up to Javert. But Cosette needed him, too. 

With leaden feet, he descended the stairs and took her tiny hand. “Well, then. Let’s see about that soup.” 

Madame Prost brought them into the kitchen, which was glowing with warmth and light that the rest of the house lacked. She invited them to take a seat at the kitchen table.

“Please forgive me the humble setting, monsieur. Only the stove and the hearth in the bedroom are lit, as I saw no point in heating the rest of the house without knowing when, or if, you would return. But I could light a fire in the dining room if you wish to take your meal there.” 

“This will do, madame,” Valjean muttered. Feeling increasingly uneasy, he focussed on helping Cosette out of her coat and scarf and getting the girl settled on a chair before sitting down himself. 

Madame Prost served them both a large bowl of thick vegetable soup from the pan on the stove, along with a piece of bread and a slice of cooked ham. Cosette stared at the food as if it was a treasure. She glanced at Valjean again.

“Bon appétit, Cosette,” he said, nudging her spoon in encouragement. “Go on, it is all for you.”

She did not need to be told twice. The soup disappeared down her little mouth with such eagerness that even Madame Prost watched in astonishment. 

“Yes, they starved her,” Valjean said when he caught the woman’s eye. “She was practically their slave.” 

“Then it was a good thing you took her with you. Is that why you went to Paris, to find your granddaughter?”

Valjean froze, but then nodded. “Did Jav—the inspector tell you I was going to Paris?”

“Yes, monsieur,” she said as she served him more bread. “He also told me that you would not be coming back.”

He choked on a spoonful of soup and coughed a few times to clear his throat. “He said what?”

She did not reply, but continued to clean the kitchen counter. “It will do him good that you are back,” she said conversationally as she filled a third bowl with soup and set it aside. “He is mending, but not as well as I had expected.”

Valjean tensed. “How so?”

“Well, half the time he neglects to eat and drink. It isn’t that he refuses to as much as that he forgets to. And he still wakes up screaming three or four times a night. Sometimes during the day, too.”

Before his mind’s eyes, Valjean imagined Javert fighting another nightmare, tossing in a restless sleep. He had seen it many times while he had sat at Javert’s bed, and it was heart wrenching to watch. To think of him getting lost in his dreams without a tender hand to calm him and chase the shadows away… “Oh, Javert,” he whispered in lament.

“Actually, he’s been looking quite forlorn since you left,” Madame Prost added. He looked up to catch her staring back. When he did, she shrugged. “Of course that letter he received from the police station today did not do him any good, either,” she said as she turned back to her work.

“Enough with the innuendo!” He dropped his spoon in his soup, splattering globs of it around the bowl. “What letter, madame?” he demanded, rising from his chair. 

“The inspector can explain that much better than I. Please, sit and eat. When you are finished, I will show the young mademoiselle to the second bedroom, while you bring the inspector his dinner.” 

He did not sit. She raised a brow. He only gazed back, until finally she sighed and put her hands in her sides. 

“Monsieur Jean, _please_. I have my hands quite full enough begging only _one_ stubborn man to feed himself.”

After another moment of defiance, he did lower himself back on his chair. “‘Monsieur Jean’,” he repeated as he dipped his spoon in his soup with no intention to eat. His throat was too tense, his stomach knotted too tightly. “I have never taken offense at your often causal attitude, and perhaps I have given you too much leeway at times, but I do not recall giving you permission to call me by my first name.”

“I meant no offence, monsieur, but neither do I apologise.”

His head snapped up, but what he meant to say died on his lips when he saw the stern look on her face. It was as if she was saw straight through him.

“Outside these walls, you are Monsieur Madeleine, to me as well as to the town. Within his house, however, I shall call you by the only name that is truly yours. But I thought you would not appreciate it if I addressed you as Monsieur Valjean.”

The floor disappeared underneath him and he plummeted into the abyss that opened in its stead. “Madame, I…” His voice failed. He had expected this moment ever since he suspected that Javert knew his secret. For years he had been ready to leave if he was exposed, but never, never on his life, had he imagined that the last nail in his coffin would be hammered down by this woman, who had been his loyal servant.

“Papa? Are you crying?”

Unable to recompose himself, he hid his face in his hands to shield the girl from his grief and bitterness. Had he fought so hard, only to fail now? “The girl…” he whispered. “Whatever they do to me, please see that she is cared for.”

“Of course she will be cared for,” he heard Madame Prost say. “That is what you meant to do, isn’t it?”

Confused, he glanced up at her, but started when she put her hand on his shoulder. 

“No one outside these walls knows,” she said, her voice warmer than it had been all evening, “and I will not betray your secret.”

He shook his head. “If you saw, madame, then others can see it, too.”

“They cannot. I only suspected something because I saw how you act around the inspector, but I didn’t know what it was until he told me. No, don’t blame him,” she added quickly when Valjean opened his mouth. “He couldn’t help it. It’s the fever that makes him be a bit too honest, I think.” The corner of her lips quirked. “With one important exception.”

“What does that mean?”

“He will tell you that, too.”

Valjean was at a loss. He was discovered, yet sheltered? Without reason? That was hard to fathom.  “What is the price of your silence, madame?”

“Monsieur?”

“You say you will not betray me, but if you know who I am, then you know I had not come to expect Christian kindness from others. I will not make that assumption now. So, what is your price?” 

She frowned. “You are as bad as he is,” she muttered. “Not everything comes with a price, monsieur. But, if you feel more comfortable knowing that I named one, then let it be…” She put her finger to her chin. “…my job! I like working for you, and I want to continue doing so. And I can imagine you need someone to look after M’moiselle Cosette when you are at work, do you not?”

He would not have dared to smile if she hadn’t. It was a careful smile at first, but one that quickly spread all over his face. “That would be most welcome, madame. Most welcome indeed! Perhaps I might ask you to consider to come and live here? The back room is not big, but easily converted to a bedroom and—“

She raised a hand, and he stopped. “Maybe some day, monsieur. For now, the job will do.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. I apologise.” 

“No need,” she sighed. Then she turned and put the third bowl of soup on a tray, next to a spoon, a napkin and the candle Valjean had brought in from the vestibule. “I will see that M’moiselle Cosette has a bit more to eat,” she said, smiling at the girl, who stared over the edge of her empty bowl. “Then shall I show you your room? I will have to change the bed sheets and light a fire, but you can watch.”

Cosette beamed, but then put her hands over her mouth. “I can change the sheets myself, madame,” she mumbled. “And I don’t need a fire.”

With a dull pain in his heart, Valjean gently pried her tiny hands away and knelt beside her chair. “Now Cosette, you shall have a fire in your room every night while it is so cold outside. And I want you to remember that Madame Prost is my – no, our housekeeper. That means she cooks and cleans for us. You will not need to do any of that. Not in this house.”

She blinked blankly at him. 

“No more chores for you, Cosette. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.” Her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear it, but the light in her eyes spoke of boundless gratitude that was too big to be put into words. He kissed her hair and then got up. “I will come and say goodnight when you are in bed, but first there is something I must do.”

Suddenly she tensed and the light was gone from her face. “Will you go away?”

“No, my child. I will be in the room next to yours, which I have given to a friend.”

“Your friend who is with God?”

He smiled. “It would seem that your prayer worked, and he has not left me yet.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then he turned and took the tray that Madame Prost handed to him. He smelled the steam rising from the bowl. “Have as much to eat as you like, Cosette. I will see you in a bit.” 

The girl nodded and readily bit down on a fresh slice of bread that was put on her plate.

“Go to him, monsieur,”  Madame Prost urged him. “He needs you.”

Those last words echoed through his head as he climbed the stairs with only the candle on the tray to light his path. The tray wasn’t heavy, yet his hands didn’t stop shaking so hard that the spoon rattled against the bowl. He dared to believe now that Javert was indeed alive and… Well, not ‘well’, apparently, but ‘alive’ was more than Valjean had dared to expect.

Still, with every step, worry gnawed at him. A week was a long time and much could change, for better or for worse. What would Javert say when he saw Valjean had broken his promise to go in hiding? Would he even be in any condition to say much of anything? And what about that elusive letter? 

The single candle cast some tentative light on the dark landing, but when he pushed the bedroom door open with an elbow, the warm glow of the hearth and a low-burning lamp on the nightstand welcomed him. As quietly as he could, Valjean crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table. The spoon jingled faintly as he did so, but that did not disturb the soft snore coming from the bed.

Javert was indeed asleep, but in the lamplight he looked like a ghost to Valjean: his features were drawn, his eyes sunken and despite the bulk of the covers, it was evident he had lost a lot of weight. He looked vulnerable like this, even fragile. Madame Prost had said Javert had been forlorn, but the deep creases knotting the man’s brow dubbed that an understatement. 

Very carefully, Valjean sat down on the edge of the mattress. When Javert didn’t wake, he put his hand on Javert’s back to cherish the slow, precious movements of every breath. It sounded calm, not nearly as ragged at it had. Javert’s lungs were clearly healing, but even by this dim light Valjean could distinguish the fevered blush on the man’s cheeks. He brought his hand up to brush Javert’s face. The skin was still far too warm, but no longer burning so intensely. That was some improvement, at least. 

Running his hand over a streak of grey hair that Javert hadn’t had before, Valjean noticed that his long hair had been washed and combed, and had been pulled back in a queue that seemed to have withstood Javert’s tossing quite well. Taking a closer look, he understood why. He smirked. A braid was a practical solution, but he could not imagine Javert had been conscious when Madame Prost had fixed it like that.

When his hand travelled back to Javert’s torso, that small spark of mirth disappeared: the nightshirt hung too loosely around the man’s body and Valjean could feel the individual ribs under his palm. This wasn’t the body of a man who could stand his ground, much less defend himself in a formal inquiry. It wasn’t fair to ask that of him, but nevertheless that was exactly what the prefecture had done. 

Valjean leaned forward and pressed his lips to Javert’s warm temple. “You will not face them alone,” he whispered. “Sometimes the convict must protect the guard, and I will protect you, _mon guardien._ ” 

In a flash, he saw a big bear of a man in a red shirt pull a young, injured prison guard from the fray of a riot. Wasn’t it said that history often liked to repeat itself?

“But you still have a battle of your own to fight.” When a gentle touch did not stir Javert, Valjean cupped his arm and shook him a little harder. “Javert? Come, wake up. It is time for dinner.”


	25. At the End of the Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Replaced complete text after having corrected what I hope is all of the glaring typo's I missed before posting. Sorry about that!)

Ink. Lines. Pen strokes. The words Javert composed spilled onto paper as he spoke them. Letters, words and sentences floated through each other, fighting for a place on the big sheet until he started the next sentence. Then everything that had gone before seeped into the paper and disappeared without a trace.

His iron will determined fresh words to stay. They did, to some extend. Try as he might, he could not prevent the new words flowing together into unrecognisable black blobs. Angry and frustrated, he tried again. But the inky stain did not fade. It only grew with each letter he wrote, larger and larger, twisting before him until the stain became a face. A face with a balding head and a pristine uniform. A face that was all too familiar to him.

 _Give me Valjean!_ Chabouillet’s image spat, scattering tiny black drops on the surrounding paper. _Give him to me! You for him!_

 _No!_ Javert shouted. He backed away, but Chabouillet reached out from the sheet with a great claw. Javert stared in horror as the claw dug into his sleeve—

“Javert?”

—until suddenly two enormous hands appeared from above. They grabbed the letter—

_Give me Valjean!_

“Come, wake up.”

—and tore it to shreds.

“It is time for dinner.”

_Give m—_

Javert cringed at the thunderous noise that rang in his head, but then the jumbled shrieks were cut off clean. Confused, he glanced around through bleary eyes. The remnants of his nightmare were fading, yet he was dreaming still. He had to be. Someone was close by, touching him. But the hand he felt on his shoulder and the one on his face were too large to belong to the woman. And who else could it be?

“Javert, you really must wake for a bit,” said a deep voice. Masculine, familiar, but not his patron. More like—No, impossible! Javert took a deep breath and repeated that conclusion in his mind. It pained him, but it was the truth. There was no point in deny the truth. Whatever he hoped, Valjean couldn’t be here. It was just that woman. Again.

“Leave me alone, damn you,” he grunted and turned to hide his face in the pillow. That did not discourage her, so he forced one eye open to cast her a scowl. And failed. Something was wrong. Through the fringes of darkness, he could tell that it wasn’t the plain dress and apron standing by his bed. Instead, the light of the lamp was painting snow white hair golden. That could not be…

“You!” he whispered when the image would not fade or distort. Fully awake at once, he shot up on both elbows. “You cannot be here! Am I hallucinating?”

Valjean’s kind eyes twinkled in the dim light as he smiled. “You are not. I’m here.” As if to confirm, the man’s hand cupped Javert’s chin. Then he leaned forward.

Javert gasped when cool lips brushed his. The touch was soft at first, but then firmed. He knew what it must mean, but after weeks of dreams and reality flowing into each other, his mind refused to accept anything less than certainty. He weaved his fingers in the white hair, grasping it to feel how real Valjean was. Very real, his lips told him. Very real and very near, yet not near enough. With renewed strength he pulled Valjean close and pressed their mouths tighter together. He opened to welcome Valjean’s tongue with his own; soft, ravenous, soothing. His fingers ached, but he would not let go; never let go.

Too soon Javert ran out of air. He tried to lock their lips again, but his limbs failed him. Just as he began to sink back, Valjean’s arms embraced him and helped him sit. Balance was a fickle thing, and he clung to Valjean’s shoulder to keep upright.

“You came back?” he whispered hoarsely, still half in disbelief. “You did. You came back. I—I was an arse to let you go in the first place. The things you could have done!” He raised a hand to Valjean’s face, but it faltered and clutched the velvet lapels of the man’s coat instead. “But it is too dangerous for you here. You should have stayed in Paris.”

Valjean dismissed the comment with a shrug. “Everywhere is dangerous for me. I swear that I tried to do as you asked, but I could not. I could not stomach staying hidden while you needed me.”

“I did not.”

Valjean searched his eyes. “That is not what I have been told. I think it was a fortunate decision to come back.”

The tatters of his pride made Javert open his mouth to rebuke, but to what end? It was obvious that Valjean looked right through him and saw the truth about the emptiness and the loneliness that had threatened to consume him. But not anymore. Now Valjean was back, the void inside him was filled once more. Overcome with unspeakable gratitude, Javert rested his brow on Valjean’s shoulder. What sounds made it to his mouth were not even complete words. He tried to collect himself and say something more sensible, but then Valjean made him lift his head to look at him.

“You look gaunt,” the man said gravely. “Madame Prost said that you would not eat.”

Javert sighed. “She pestered me often enough until I did.”

“Not often enough, then.”

“Plenty. But most of the time I could not stomach it.”

Valjean frowned in what only could be a fierce worry. “Would you survive pneumonia, only to starve yourself to death afterwards?”

“Of course not!” Javert snorted, but it lacked conviction. Valjean was right. His pride had negated the woman’s warnings, but now he had no choice but to admit that he had been, for lack of a better word, pining. And that hadn’t done him any good.

Nevertheless he made a face when Valjean lifted a bowl from the bedside table and began to stir it. The smell that rose from its fumes was far from appealing. “Anything but that,” he growled. “It tastes foul.”

Valjean ignored his lament. “No protest, no discussion,” he said as he scooped up a spoonful and gently blew over it. “Now…”

Javert recoiled. “I refuse to be fed like an infant! I will eat that bloody soup if I must, but I will damn well feed myself!” Even before he had uttered the last word, Valjean’s sly grin told him that he’d been baited. He blushed with embarrassment, but decided to cut his losses and concede.

“Good choice,” said Valjean as he put the bowl down to help Javert sit against the headboard. “You need your strength for what is to come.”

The words were innocent enough, but Javert felt the blood drain from his face. Valjean had no doubt meant to hint at the long road to recovery, yet all Javert could think of was Chabouillet’s letter. And the impending inquiry.

The inquiry entailed too many unknown variables; too much that was out of his control. If he were summoned to Paris to be questioned, they might not permit him to return. Or if they decided to dismiss him outright, he might not have the means to pay for _diligence_. On the other hand, if the inquiry committee came to Montreuil, they would want to meet Madeleine and verify his claim of having been mistaken. Then they would see what he had seen and the truth would come out! But if they found Madeleine had left town, they might circulate the order to other towns to seize him for questioning upon arrival. When that happened, they would search his papers, his passport. His _false_ passport! And the penalty for forging a passport—

“Javert? Javert! Snap out of it!”

“Eh?” He stared at Valjean, almost surprised to find him still in the dusky bedroom.

“Are you all right? You look faint.”

Javert blinked insensibly. Valjean was strangely far away, until a broad hand on his neck bridged that distance. He swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I can protect you, Jean,” he muttered. “I will do what I can, but I fear it may not be enough.”

To his surprise, Valjean replied with a warm smile that made his face shine. “Do not worry about that. I will shield you.”

That brought him instantly back to the here and now. “That is madness! If they come here…”

“’They’? They, who?”

“The committee that will investigate my recent behaviour.” He caught Valjean’s alarmed expression and raised a brow. “You did not think I could unjustly accuse a magistrate without due consequences, did you?”

“So you know about that formal inquiry?”

“My patron wrote me a letter to inform me after I failed to testify in court.” He stopped, and frowned. “But how do _you_ know?” Despite the bad light he could clearly see Valjean’s face redden. His frown turned a notch deeper. “Valjean?”

Valjean seemed to want to drill a hole in floor by staring at it.

“Valjean, answer me! _How?_ ”

“…the judge at Arras told me.”

Javert’s jaw dropped. “You— Tell me you did not!”

“I’m sorry! Javert, I really am, but I had to know what had happened to that man they thought was me!”

“You _idiot_!” A more articulate response proved impossible. His hands balled to fists as fury, fear, and concern all wanted to knock sense in the headstrong man. “The risk you took going there! Have you _any_ idea?”

“I do,” Valjean admitted dejectedly.

“Then why—?” His voice cracked on a coughing fit. He tried again, but his lungs would not let him. Gasping, he curled in on himself as more convulsions wrecked his torso. At the edge of his awareness he sensed how the hands that supported his ribs were strong, not slender. After that, his chest seemed to hurt less.

“I knew it was a risk, but I had to take it,” Valjean implored rather than explained. “I had to know if you were right. And you were. Then the judge told me that he had spoken to someone at the prefecture, and that was how he knew that they plan to submit you to a formal inquiry.”

At last Javert’s lungs calmed and he was able to catch his breath. So that was how Chabouillet had learned of the fiasco. That was good to know, although it was not going to be of much help to him.

“I will likely lose… my position with the police,” he said, still breathing hard. “I received a letter saying I can redeem myself… by giving evidence to support my allegations… against Madeleine. But I will not. My job is not worth your life.”

“But Javert, your duty is who you are!”

“My identity is not worth sacrificing yours!” He straightened his back as best he could. “I told my patron that I was wrong. That my report on Madeleine was false and that I will bear full responsibility for that.” He sighed. “I can only hope I was sufficiently convincing.”

There was a long silence. Javert stared at the shadows on the wall while that same strong hand rubbed slow, soothing circles over his ribcage.

“You have a patron?” Valjean asked, his voice casual.

Javert glanced at him. “Of course. How else would a gutter-born brat ever be admitted to the police force, much less make it to an officer’s rank?”

Valjean chuckled. “To be honest I had not given that any thought. He must be someone of some influence, then.”

“He is,” said Javert quietly. “His name is Chabouillet, and he is the secretary of the Prefect.”

The hand on his side stilled. “Will he help you?”

“Only if I arrest you.” He clasped a hand over Valjean’s. “And I will not, do you hear?”

A grateful smile appeared amidst the white beard. “Then you must regain your strength to face him,” Valjean urged. “Come, eat. I can count your ribs through the nightshirt.”

But Javert turned away from the bowl that Valjean offered him. “It tastes foul, I said.”

“I had some of it myself, and it is perfectly good soup.”

He opened his eyes just enough to glare, and to see Valjean threatening with the spoon as if it was a weapon.

“I warned you. Either you eat this or I feed it to you. Those are the only options.”

Pride that had stood corrected before now overtook defiance with grim determination and reluctantly allowed Valjean to hand over the bowl of soup. Javert stared with distaste at the thing in his lap until the kind but relentless gaze of Valjean’s green eyes pressured him into picking up the bowl and lifting it to his lips. The first thing he noticed was that the vegetable muck had been watered down a fraction since last time, making it easier to drink. The second thing he noticed was that while it was barely lukewarm to him, he didn’t shiver as the substance slid down his throat.

He had swallowed two mouthfuls without protest and Valjean was encouraging him to drink some more, when footsteps approached and Madame Prost appeared in the half-opened doorway.

“Monsieur Jean? I have put Mademoiselle Cosette to bed, but she is asking for you to come and say goodnight.”

“Oh yes, of course. Excuse me, inspector. I will be right back.” Valjean got up and exited, closing the door behind him.

Suddenly alone, Javert distracted himself from the uneasy feeling that gave him by drinking the soup. In turn he distracted himself from its taste by listening for snippets of conversation beyond the timber walls. He could not hear words, but he easily made out the deep rumble of Valjean’s voice and the lighter tones of the housekeeper’s. Between those, however, he heard even higher tones, like a child might make. The whore’s child, no doubt. So, Valjean had succeeded in retrieving her then.

Javert leaned back for a moment. His body was tired, but his head was clear. Clearer than it had been for a while. Absentmindedly he raised the bowl again. His arms ached, but he forced himself to not pay it any attention. What lethargy had possessed him before was not gone, but could more easily be ignored now. The same went for the nagging feeling in his stomach when it strained to contain more food than it had in weeks. Having a full stomach was not yet pleasant, but it was in other ways gratifying. A victory of sorts, although his arms were shaking all the way to his shoulders when at last he put the empty bowl back on the tray.

The _empty_ bowl.

Javert froze, then tipped the bowl and peered into it. Indeed the wretched soup was gone. All of it. For days he had struggled to swallow every morsel he’d been forced to eat, and now he had finished his meal in a matter of minutes. Even the last mouthful had still had some lingering warmth to it.

_“He can make you eat and drink even when you are unconscious.”_

Damn, but the woman had been right. How did that happen?

_“Call it what you will, inspector, but that doesn’t change what it is!”_

What it is… What she called that void inside him.

_“You love him!”_

Love? Without meaning to, Javert held his breath as the notion sank in. He hadn’t given it any thought yet. He hadn’t had a chance to. First there had been Chabouillet’s letter, then the terrible weariness once he had written his answer. But still… love?

_“Dying men do not cry out for mere acquaintances, nor do they calm at the touch of just anyone.”_

God, he had, hadn’t he? Only moments ago it had been Valjean’s fingers massaging his side that had comforted him. Not to mention what _other_ ways Valjean had touched him. And he had allowed it. He had loved it.

_“You love him!”_

If he were honest – and what purpose was served by lying? - it had not been only his body that had craved Valjean’s return. His heart, once a dead thing, had surged like never before in that moment when he realised that Valjean’s presence by his side was not a dream.

In the face of such overwhelming evidence, who was he to refute the inevitable conclusion? Strange as it may seem, he was… in love. And if he extrapolated the evidence before him, he had been in love with Jean Valjean for a long time. That prison riot had not just spawned seeds of trust, but of something more as well. Admiration, respect, and not in the least a physical appreciation that seemed to be mutual, if Valjean’s touches were any indication.

_“And he… He loves you.”_

Javert smirked at himself. Yes, perhaps he would dare to believe that now.

But his contentment did not last. What had grown between them would not be an easy thing to pursue beyond this room. There were various factors to consider, each one just as dire as the consequences of his misplaced report, and just as destructive. Of course it would be easier to take the sensible way out and avoid them all, but all things considered, he wasn’t sure that he could. Not if it meant that the rest of his life would be as empty as this last week had been.

He had just arrived at that conclusion when the door opened and Valjean’s invisible light silently confirmed it.

“I apologise. Cosette has some trouble adjusting to being in a warm and safe house,” Valjean said as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Really, Javert, given half a chance you would have arrested those people for abuse and slavery.”

“Then you did well,” Javert replied faintly. His mind still had trouble handling more than one issue at a time, and it was too occupied with factors and their consequences to care much for this new topic. Valjean didn’t seem to mind the lack of reaction when he continued.

“Time will tell if I can continue to do well by her. Madeleine can take better care of her than Valjean ever could, so I introduced her as my granddaughter.” He gave Javert a nervous, crooked grin. “I must be Madeleine to the world if I am to stay here. In name only, of course, without the mask. You saw to that…”

The way Valjean let his sentence trail off caught Javert’s attention. He found the man staring at him with an open, honest gaze. He realised he was expected to reply, but had lost thread of what he should reply to. It earned him another commiserate smile from the man beside him.

“You finished the soup,” Valjean remarked.

Javert nodded. “Only because you asked me to.”

“Really? You once said it was easy to make you obey me, but I had not thought that a request was all it took.” He leaned in, smirking as he brought his face close to Javert’s.

“I said that?” Javert whispered, feeling an intense heat rise to his already hot cheeks at their growing proximity. “When was that?”

“When I last contemplated tying you to the bed.”

Javert’s eyes flew open, but Valjean’s mouth was already on his. The glow on his face spread to the rest of his body as Valjean gently sucked at his lips. He moaned into the kiss, and then again when Valjean let go of him.

“Short of breath?”

“Not yet,” he rasped. With unsteady hands he grabbed both of Valjean’s shoulders. “But do that again and I will be.”

Valjean retreated, sporting a guilty look on his face. “I apologise. That was presumptuous of me.”

“Not at all. I may not have a lot of stamina yet, but a little food and your return seem to have worked miracles.” He smirked wolfishly and ran a thumb over Valjean’s lower lip. “Your housekeeper had a word for it.”

The broad shoulders relaxed again. “Did she now?” He pressed a kiss to Javert’s thumb. “I expect she told you what she did me, then. She seems to be very perceptive.”

“So she is. And… I believe her deductions may have been correct.”

Valjean smiled. “I like to think they are. And you?”

All Javert could reply with was an unintelligible mutter as Valjean laid a trail of cool kisses from his flustered cheekbone to his temple.

“You still feel so warm,” the older man whispered.

The tone was worried, but Javert detected an undercurrent of longing that made his whole body respond. Both their bodies, it would seem. But his mind would not stop mulling over one central question that had nothing and still everything to do with the sensation growing under his covers:

“If the woman is right, then how do we proceed?”

“I would say that was obvious, no?” Valjean muttered, nipping several light kisses along Javert’s jaw. “In Paris, I thought I missed you. Now I’m wondering if I have missed you longer.” He nuzzled a whisker. “Maybe even since Toulon.”

It stunned Javert to hear his sentiments returned so literally. He sat motionless but for his laboured breathing when Valjean traced the folds of his nightshirt down his chest. Rough fingers grazed a nipple through the fabric and he shivered.

Immediately, the fingers stopped. “Are you cold?”

“No,” Javert replied, gazing through heavy eyelids.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare.” He tilted his head back and bared his throat to Valjean. A gentle kiss on his clavicle was his reward. “But what of the woman?”

“She went home for the night. And the girl is asleep,” Valjean lazily undid the three buttons on the nightshirt’s collar. “I cannot begin to say how good it is to see you feel so much better.”

Javert smirked. “And did you ever notice that you loose your careful attitude when you get aroused?” Valjean’s head snapped up in surprise, and the smirk became a weary grin. “It does not matter. In fact, I like that side of you.”

As he spoke he felt his hand wander to Valjean’s muscular thigh. Valjean gasped and put his hand over Javert’s to keep it from moving either up his leg or away. “Not too fast,” he muttered.

Not too fast, indeed. “We cannot let anyone know of this,” Javert said. “If this is what you want—“

“It is!”

“Then we cannot forget that while what we do is not against the laws of France, it is against the laws of God and society.”

“God preaches love,” said Valjean. “As long as it is done for love, I am convinced that He will forgive us.”

“Maybe, but society is not so lenient.”

“…I know.”

“So again I ask you: how are we going to go about this?”

Valjean held on tightly to Javert’s hand, gazing at the floor as he thought. “I did not risk coming back only to let it end here,” he said at last. “But seeing this through demands that we are silent and discrete.” He glanced at Javert, his large eyes imploring. “I have lived such a life ever since coming to this town. I am a fugitive, I am used to lying. You, however, are an honourable man. A man of the law. Would you be willing – no, would you be _able_ to live a life of secrets and deception?”

Javert rolled his eyes. “I am a spy, Valjean. Being secretive comes with the job. If I’m not deceptive and discrete, I’m dead.”

The brazen words drove the point home, but Valjean blanched so thoroughly that he looked more like a ghost than a man. “Do not die on me,” he whispered.

“Of course not!” Javert began, but before the next thought reached his mouth, he snapped it shut and sighed. “Forget what I said just now. It was a phrase, nothing more.”

Valjean nodded, but remained tense. Javert kneaded the leg under his palm as kindly as he could, hoping to chase the fear from Valjean’s body. Eventually the tension did drain away, but the playful mood did not return. Perhaps it was for the better, Javert reasoned. What little energy he felt he had regained tonight would do him no good if he wasted it on foolish games. There would time enough for that later, when he was stronger. And in all honesty, Valjean was in not much of a shape tonight, either.

“You look tired.”

Valjean nodded. “I _am_ tired. I went to the court only this morning, but it feels like a lifetime ago.” He yawned. “Travel always makes me feel displaced in time as well as space, and being frightened was no help.”

“Frightened?”

“Of finding you… Never mind. It was afraid for you, but here you are, alive and mending. That is all I had wished for, and more than I had dared to hope.” He smiled and stifled another yawn against the back of his hand. “We should both get some sleep. I will put some more wood on the fire, so you will not get cold.” He did not wait for a response before he got up to do as he promised.

Javert did not offer a reply, although he felt that he should. Instead he slid further under the covers until his head rested on the pillow again. From there he watched as Valjean went about feeding the fire in the hearth and removed the boots, the velvet tailcoat and the waistcoat that he wore. Javert moved over to the far side of the bed, making room for the man. But instead Valjean unfolded the big plaid and he pulled that around his shoulders as he sat himself in the big fauteuil.

Javert scowled. “You are not going to sleep there,” he growled as he turned down the top quilt from the space beside him. “Come on, come to bed.”

“Really, the chair will do perfectly.”

“It is your own bed, for God’s sake!”

“Of course it is,” Valjean replied while he shuffled in the seat to get comfortable, “but I decided to give it to you for as long as you have need to it. I have slept in far less comfortable places than this.”

“Jeannn...”

Somehow the single syllable was a growl and a sigh at once. Javert glared at Valjean, but his gaze softened when he saw how the surprised look on the man’s face turned into something else.

“Very well,” Valjean said. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he began to smile. “Because you ask so nicely.”

How a growl could qualify as ‘nice’ escaped Javert, but that mattered little when the mattress moved under Valjean’s weight and a strong, pleasant presence nestled itself against him.

Valjean pulled the quilt and the plaid up to his shoulders, but had kept the sheet and the other blankets between them. “I do not what you to get cold,” he repeated.

“Stop worrying,” Javert grunted into the man’s fine hair. “I told you, I’m not cold.”

“No? Sweating, then?”

“A little. To be honest, I’m quite comfortable for a change.”

Valjean raised his head and pressed a long, gentle kiss to Javert’s brow. “Could it be that your fever is breaking at last?”

“That would be most welcome,” Javert muttered and pulled Valjean closer. In truth he had not started shivering as he had in previous nights. He was more hesitant than Valjean to draw any conclusions from that, but a part of him felt that the soreness and the nightmares would soon come to an end.

At last.


	26. Black and White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about the sword of Damocles is that you never know when it will fall. All you know for sure is that it will.
> 
> (So folks, final real chapter. This is where I get scared that I screwed up after all).

Clouds lazily chased each other through early the March sky. The last two weeks had seen the end of the winter’s snow and every new day brought more signs that spring was on its way. A handful of adventurous wildflowers that had already sprouted under the trees that lined Montreuil’s lanes had welcomed the rain that the morning had brought. As the afternoon progressed, however, the occasional sunshine had dried the air and, more importantly, the ground.

A good thing, as far as the lone pedestrian in the long coat and top hat was concerned. Wet and slippery pavements were the last thing he needed right now.

Javert made his way down the street step by careful step. At his side, his renowned leaden-headed cane ticked on the cobblestones, for the moment less a weapon than an actual walking-stick. He would have preferred not to use it, but his legs weren’t strong enough yet to carry his tall frame unaided. Spending the better part of five weeks confined to a bed had done nothing for his muscles, so a significant part of his recovery consisted of regaining the ability to stand and walk on his own two feet. By and by he managed, but not nearly as fast as he would have liked. It was downright embarrassing that even the short stretch between the police station and his apartment was too great a distance to cover without stopping to sit down twice. But he’d had to, to catch his breath if not to rest his legs.

Another step, and another. Suddenly his knee buckled and he leaned heavily on the cane to keep upright. Then he moved on again with relentless determination. The weakened state of his body infuriated him, but today had been enough of a success to outshine these little missteps.

Because today he had gone back to work. Desk work, but work nonetheless. At last he could make himself useful again. And he had something to take his mind off the long, lonely days otherwise spend in his Spartan apartment.

Javert forced himself not to think of the emptiness he would come home to once he had rounded the last corner up ahead. Valjean had begged him to stay longer and he would have liked to, but in the end they didn’t have a choice. Already stories had spawned about the inspector spending so long at Madeleine’s house; relatively innocent and surprisingly correct ones in the markets and shops, but a more malicious variety had wormed through the underground of the town. While briefing Javert on what he’d missed, his lieutenant had let slip a few that the gendarmes had caught on to. Apparently the absence of the chief of police could only be explained something supernatural or something depraved, unless he was dead. And he wasn’t, so there.

So much for criminal logic. Javert had dismissed those absurd tales for what they were and had confirmed only a handful of sparse, innocent details to his lieutenant in order to avoid drawing suspicion to his denial, but silently he was pleased that he had decided to leave as soon as Dr Renoir had declared him fit to go outside. If he and Madeleine weren’t seen in each other’s company for a while, the rumour mills would run dry and move on to greener pastures.

But that undetermined ‘while’ would be torture for him, too similar to Valjean’s supposedly indefinite departure for Paris. Or those years after Toulon…

He staggered, needing to put his free hand on the brick wall beside him to steady himself. One breath, two, three. No, it would not come to that, he swore. Better living as recluses together than letting society keep them apart for so long. And Valjean was never far, not as he had been then. They would be close, if apart. He slowly continued down the street. Yes, they could see this through. As long as that damned inquiry wouldn’t upset everything, they could see this through.

He shuddered. He had expected a formal announcement by now, or at least word from Chabouillet. But the station had not received anything of a sort and no letter had been delivered at his private residence. Disconcerting to say the least.

By the time Javert reached the front door of the tenement building at Rue Saint Dominique number 4, he was breathing hard. His legs burned with effort and he leaned against the doorpost as he dug up his key from his pocket and let himself in. He had only just stepped into the narrow hallway when a woman with a perfectly circular waist bustled out of her downstairs apartment.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, there you are! You have a visitor!” She wriggled her eyebrows.

Javert stilled in alarm. “A visitor, Madame Gaston?” Here? And inciting such a reaction? This was _not_ good.

“Yes, yes. He called on you twice today. The first time he left but just now he went up. I told him you might be a while, what with you not walking so fast.” He shot her a cold glare at that. It went right over her head. “Anyway, this time when I said I didn’t know where you’d gone off to, he insisted on waiting for you on the landing. Wouldn’t even come in for a cup of tea, he said.”

That was even worse. His heart was racing, but he kept his face impassive. “And did this man give a name?”

“Like I wouldn’t recognise Monsieur Madeleine!” the woman exclaimed.

“Madeleine?” His heart skipped a beat, but did not slow.

“Yes! He’s gone as white as the butcher’s wife’s second cousin said he was. But I’m sure you knew that already, don’t you, inspector?” She waved him off. “Go on! He’ll have worn a hole in the floor by now, I gather.”

Taking a deep breath, Javert set out to brave the stairs. He would have rushed up two steps at a time, but his legs wouldn’t allow it. More was the better, because the beady eyes drilling in his back reminded him of the importance of a calm, measured gait that pretended he couldn’t care less if the King himself was waiting for him.

Not the King; Valjean… Valjean had called on him. Twice. Javert wasn’t sure whether to kiss the man or deck him for this stupidity.

When he reached the first floor landing, he immediately caught sight of a worried face with a white halo around green eyes. The light of relief in those eyes as they say him, too, was hard to miss. Javert swallowed, but did not hurry.

“Monsieur,” he greeted with a formal nod. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I rarely receive visitors, so I did not expect any.” He made sure to lay a hint of reprimand in his voice. The way Valjean looked down at his hands, the man had heard it. “However, since you have taken the trouble to come all this way, how may I be of service?”

“There… is an urgent matter I need your advice on, inspector.” It was fortunate that the nosey portress could only hear their words, but not see the nervous plea on Valjean’s face: the words had been Madeleine’s, but the face was definitely not.

Javert sighed and unlocked the door of his apartment. “Come in and sit down, monsieur. Then let’s hear about this urgent matter.”

He let Valjean enter first, then followed him in and closed the door behind them. But before he could lock it, as was his habit, a big hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards until he staggered the three steps onto the plain chair by the window. His hat tumbled onto the floor and the cane slipped from his grasp as he all but fell on the wooden seat. Towering over him, Valjean reached for the stick before it could fall and make a racket.

“Where _were_ you?” Valjean hissed through his teeth.

Javert rolled his eyes. “I’m all ears, monsieur,” he said loudly. Then, at a whisper: “What were you _thinking_? I told you not to come here!”

“Madame Prost said you were out when she brought the groceries.”

“To exercise, as that doctor of yours told me to.”

“He never said to go out all day!” Valjean spat, managing to fume while whispering. Then the creases in his brow softened and he shook his head in dismay. “You had me worried, Javert. You haven’t got your strength back. What if something had happened to you while you were out?”

“You could have called on me at the police station, monsieur,” Javert said, both as an answer and a ruse for prying ears.

Valjean’s eyes flew open. “ _The_ _station_?” he mouthed, shocked.

Again Javert answered out loud: “Not all day as yet, but I have resumed most of my regular duties. I have been forced to neglect them for too long already.”

“Too soon, too soon!” Valjean whispered, hurt unmistakeable in his eyes as he cupped Javert’s face.

Javert wanted so badly touch Valjean in return, but this apartment had not even a fraction of the privacy that Madeleine’s house offered them. He barely dared to risk leaning into the warm palm.

“I understand your predicament, monsieur,” he said. “However, this is not the place to discuss such matters. I shall call on you at your office in the morning to go over the details.” Using the wall and the table for leverage, he pushed himself up to a stand, in doing so forcing Valjean to take a step back. “In future, monsieur, if you have need of police assistance, send word of such to the station. Do not call on me at me here. It does not befit a gentleman of your stature.”

Valjean looked at him with great difficulty. His hands fumbled as they propped Javert’s cane up against the wall and his whole stance radiated pain and dejection. “You are so distant since you left…” he whispered.

God, did the man not understand how dangerous this was? Even if they could create a credible premise of friendship over time, they still had to be so very careful! Stolen moments of intimacy never went unwitnessed for long and Valjean’s own secret was hard enough to hide without raising suspicion in other ways. They simply could not risk it! … but neither could he risk losing the trust Valjean had put in him. He licked his lips, certain that the sour taste he found there was in fact Valjean’s insecurity. His fists clenched.

He glanced past Valjean at the door. The key was in the lock and there were no weaknesses elsewhere in the woodwork that his too curious portress might use. She could hear, but not see. That left the curtainless window behind him.

Javert stepped aside, willingly gave up his balance so he stumbled into the corner beside the window, where he let himself sag onto the floor. As he expected, Valjean started but was quick to come to his aid. In the instance the man crouched to help him, Javert grabbed the velvet lapels of his coat and pulled him as close as he possibly could.

Neither of them made a sound as their mouths met and their tongues touched. Javert could feel Valjean’s relief wash over and through them both. He cupped Valjean’s neck and deepened the kiss as long as he dared before abruptly letting go.

“Now go,” he breathed, barely loud enough to hear. “I come to you, not you to me. These walls have eyes and ears.”

Valjean nodded and took his distance even as he helped Javert to his feet. “Take care, inspector,” said Madeleine firmly. “If I were still mayor, I would remind you that you cannot serve this town if you push yourself to breaking point.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Javert said, nodding his submission in the hope of reassuring Valjean.

“Tomorrow at the factory, then. Will eleven o’clock suit you?”

“I shall be there.”

“Good, good.” But Valjean’s face betrayed he did not agree. “Again, I trust that resuming your duties so soon does not impede your recovery?”

“Not at all, monsieur. I am quite convinced of the contrary.”

Valjean was not, but neither could he impose his concerns as he had while Javert had been his guest. He made a helpless gesture. “In that case, please feel free to let me know if I can be of any help, inspector.”

Now Javert could not keep a genuine smile from his lips. “You already did far more than I can ever repay you for, monsieur.”

Valjean returned the smile readily, and Javert couldn’t decide whether the man was too close or too far away from him.

“You were my guest, inspector. I never ask for repayment from guests,” said Valjean without hiding the fondness in his voice. This time Javert only welcomed its warmth, for as long as it lasted. “Tomorrow at eleven,” Madeleine repeated, each word putting the necessary distance between them. “Until then, inspector.”

Javert nodded again. “Monsieur Madeleine.”

The sound of his door closing after Valjean’s retreating back was far louder than should be possible. For the longest time, Javert did not move. At last he retrieved his fallen hat from the floor, then regarded his surroundings to keep his mind off what he felt. His apartment was nothing but a single, scarcely furnished room void of anything that wasn’t practical or necessary. Even the simple table was accompanied by a single chair. Yet Valjean’s presence had warmed it in a way that the rarely-used stove had never been able to manage.

But now Valjean was gone, that stove would have to do.

Javert knelt down in front of the stove and opened its little hatch to fill the cold, black belly with firewood from the basket on the side. A basket that was normally empty, but that the portress now kept filled because she was paid to. Not by Javert, though, because he hadn’t earned a single sou since falling ill. No, he suspected that Madame Prost brought more than only groceries when she came by these days, just as his rent had magically appeared in his landlady’s hand while he had been away. His sense of justice told him he should pay the money back, no matter that he had little to spare even on a full income. But Valjean had made it very clear that he did not want to be repaid in coin, and he would be insulted if Javert pressed the money on him regardless.

Such a strange thing… Valjean believed in giving, but Javert believed in justice. He wanted to give something back and thus settle the debt he had incurred, but repayment by any means other than money was immoral, and monetary repayments had been ruled out by Valjean, who, as Madeleine, had more money than he could give away.

Unsatisfactory as it was, all Javert could do was accept what Valjean gave him so unconditionally. By the man’s little smile, Javert almost concluded that the acceptance itself was the only reward that Valjean was after. He shook his head . If anyone had told him three months ago about an ex-con who honestly believed that giving was its own reward, he would have asked how much they’d had to drink, exactly.

When the tinderbox had struck a spark to the dry kindle wood and small flames quickly grew bigger, he closed the hatch of the stove and put the tinderbox back in the basket. Seated on the edge of the bed, he passed the time until the room got warmer by mentally compiling a plan to deal with the backlog of paperwork back at the police station. Only when he began to get uncomfortable hot did he shrug out of his greatcoat and hung it on its peg by the door, along with his hat.

He had just decided to write his to-do list for the coming days on a sheet of paper, when someone knocked on his door. Judging by the uneven rap, it was the portress.

“Yes, Madame Gaston?”

“Visitor again, inspector,” the woman called through the door.

He rolled his eyes. Valjean really ought to know better than coming back a third time in one day, especially after agreeing to meet in the morning. But then he could not refuse the man, either. The multiple visits might be explained by Madeleine’s reputation of being somewhat eccentric. Or so Javert hoped.

“Very well, madame. I will receive him,” he grunted, keeping a front of exasperation that was not entirely faked. He heard her waddle down the stairs, followed moments later by the heavier footsteps of a man coming up. He flipped the door handle, jutting the door ajar before turning to put an extra log in the sputtering stove. Behind him, the footsteps halted by the threshold, followed by a tentative knock on the half-opened door.

“Yes, yes. Come in,” Javert growled as he clambered to his weary feet and dusted some sooth from his hands. “Now what is it this—“ He stopped dead when he saw the man standing before him. “Monsieur!” he gasped, bowing sharply.

Jean Chabouillet raised a brow, but finally extended a hand. Not in greeting, Javert noticed belatedly, but to keep his stricken protégé from stumbling backwards against the hot stove.

“Monsieur, I did not exp—“

“Of course you did not expect me,” Chabouillet interjected. “I hardly announced my arrival, did I?”

Javert’s mouth had gone bone-dry and his gut burned with more than a little fear. Feeling off-kilter, he sought support on the table. “I do not normally have need for more than one chair,” he said tersely. “Please, monsieur.” With one hand, he gestured his superior to the lone chair by the window.

Every bit a true gentleman in the presence of his subordinate, Chabouillet seated himself. He tugged at the fingers of his gloves to take them off, all the while scrutinising Javert head to foot.

“I called on the station earlier,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your lieutenant informed me that you returned to work only today, after an absence of nearly six weeks. He also informed me that you had left before the day shift was done.”

Javert straightened his shoulders. “So I did, monsieur,” he confessed. “On doctor’s orders. He said that not taking proper rest while in ill health was what had caused my predicament in the first place.” He inclined his head. “Of course those hours will be deducted from my wages, as is proper.”

“If you will ever receive a policeman’s wages again, that is,” Chabouillet bit.

Javert froze where he stood. “Then….then Committee of Inquiry reached a verdict without a hearing?”

“Hardly. And don’t think I came to bring you in personally. I merely made use of some business I had to attend to in Arras to make a little detour and do an informal inquiry first.” The man’s stern features softened a fraction. “I must admit that on my way here, I had every intention of dismissing you if I had so much as the slightest reason to. I had not foreseen _this_ , however.”

“Monsieur?”

Chabouillet put his gloves on the table. “You look a fright, Javert. I have seen beggars dying of consumption who have a better complexion than you do!”

That pallor was more likely due to the terror coursing through him, but Javert kept that information to himself. That he couldn’t keep the faint tremor in his limbs at bay was bad enough.

“After I read your letter, I did not know what to think,” his patron explained. “I have never known you to play comedy, and if your condition was truly as bad as the letter – and your handwriting – implied, you could not have written it yourself. A mutually exclusive contradiction, as you understand. That suggested a foul ruse. However, now that I see your current condition, I understand my apprehension was misplaced. Much to my relief, I must add.” He frowned at himself. “Not that I am relieved that you look like a dead man walking, but that your integrity is intact, of course.”

Javert forced a nod of recognition. “Then it will please you to know, monsieur, that I wrote with no intention to excuse myself for my mistakes. I only meant to clarify the circumstances in which they were made.”

Chabouillet pursed his lips. “Your handwriting was not very clear at this point, but is it correct that you requested your own dismissal with Monsieur Madeleine, but that he refused to remove your from your post?”

“Indeed, monsieur. I have made the same request of Monsieur Giscault, his successor, only two days ago,” something Valjean had obviously not yet found out about, “but since Madeleine did not wish to press charges against me, Monsieur Giscault informed me that he has no grounds to dismiss me. Which is not incorrect, as he would have to base his decision on my word alone and one piece of evidence is not sufficient for conviction, even outside court.” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “However, if you were to inform him of the gravity of my transgression, I’m sure that he will be more than willing to strip me of my rank and position.”

“Your transgression…” Chabouillet gazed intently at him. “You speak now of your allegations against Madeleine, I presume?”

“They are false, monsieur.” Javert didn’t dare to meet his patron’s eyes, too afraid that his own would give him away. Lying to scum to keep his cover was easy; lying to his legal and moral superior was next to impossible. He felt himself shake all over now.

“You wrote that you acted against him out of spite.”

Javert suppressed a shiver. “A gross misconduct for which I have no excuse whatsoever.” It was true. And still it was not. A duality that existed where there should be none, but that was nevertheless irrefutable. Yet impossible. The tremor in his hands worsened, became visible. He balled his fists to keep it from showing. “Monsieur, _please_! I cannot be a policeman anymore! Not after what happened. You gave me this position. Will you then be just where others were not and take it away from me?” _Free me of my duty to you, so that I may be free to do my duty to him._

The man leaned back in the chair. For the longest moment, Chabouillet said nothing. Then, a deep sigh.

“No.”

Javert’s head snapped up, what blood was left in his face draining away. “No?”

“It would be lawful, perhaps, but it would not be just.”

Familiar words, somehow, but not ones that could pertain to him. He stared wide-eyed at his patron, dumbstruck.

“It is very simple, Javert. If Madeleine does not press charges, the prosecutor has no case.”

“But you have my letter, my report! The outcome of the formal inquiry cannot be anything else but that my transgression is handed to the prosecutor for trial!”

“So it would, if indeed there is going to be a formal inquiry. But there won’t be one.”

Javert felt the floor disappear beneath his feet. Only a years-long habit of stubbornness, aided by the table, kept him standing. “But...?”

Chabouillet smiled thinly. “Count Anglès left the decision with me.”

“But you are my patron. He cannot expect you to be impartial!” He bowed his head, regretting his outburst. “With all due respect, of course,” he added.

The man smirked. “That is why the Prefect left the decision to me. You see, when you report first arrived, I had no choice but to discuss it with him. But only him, because until it was certain that your suspicions could be verified, we could not risk a scandal. A parole-breaker made mayor! The possibility alone would cause outrage!”

Javert felt cold sweat trickle down his neck.

“Then around the same time we got a report from the prosecutor in Arras that the man you suspected was your mayor, had in fact been captured. Needless to say, that put your allegations in a different light. Either you were smarter and more observant than anyone in the Arras judicial corpse, or you were embarrassingly wrong.”

Javert nodded gravely. “I was embarrassingly wrong.” His legs were shaking so badly that soon the table would not be enough to hold him up. He knew all this; he had confessed as much. Why was Chabouillet toying with him?

“Since I had let you know about that arrest, the Count and I assumed that your failure to testify in court was impudence.”

“Monsieur, I would never!” Easy to say now, but would he really have gone to testify if he could? Javert still didn’t know.

“Then your, shall we say, self-explanatory letter put us at another crossroads of possibilities. To avoid too much of a fuss, Count Anglès decided against a formal inquiry and gave me full discretion to find out what _really_ happened and deal with you accordingly.”

“But procedures demand that—“

“Procedures are pliable when no one but the Prefect and I know about your report.”

Javert gaped. From Chabouillet’s letters he had assumed that his allegations were publically known within the prefecture. True, the second letter had been a personal letter, but that first one had been an official missive declaring him mad for his assumptions... He said so.

“An honest mistake,” Chabouillet declared lightly. “Possibly that illness had already gotten a hold on you when you made that report. No need to make a big spectacle out of that, much less a public one. There is no point in sacrificing your career and your dignity over a mistake, when the victim, such as he is, will not even press charges, right?”

The man leaned forward, his face full of unspoken intent. He could not have missed how badly Javert was shaking, but did not pay it any heed.

“You are too valuable an asset, Javert. Since I have taken you under my protection, you have proven yourself an outstanding policeman. Your attitude and your work are highly commendable, and I have every intention to bring you to Paris in a few years. It would be a waste of both your effort and mine to dismiss you now. It would make you look bad, it would make me look bad, and neither of us deserves the repercussion thereof. So, while I understand your insistence that you ought to be dismissed for making that report, it would not be just to do so. Do you understand?”

Javert blinked very slowly, as if the words took time to filter to his mind. Now he remembered why his patron’s words had sounded so familiar: he had said exactly the same to Valjean. Yes, the death sentence that awaited Valjean upon arrest was lawful, but it was not just.

The irony struck him hard. A soft, twisted chortle rumbled in his throat. With some imagination, it might have been a laugh. Then he took as deep a breath as his lungs allowed.

“I said in my letter that I would surrender to any penalty you saw fit to subject me to. And I will. Even... even if that penalty is the omission of lawful punishment.”

“Good man!” Chabouillet exclaimed, suddenly grinning broadly. “That is settled then. Needless to say, there will be no record of what we have discussed tonight and our latest correspondence will not go on file at the prefecture. The station’s administration stating your prolonged illness will explain your absence in court, and that is that. Mum’s the word and none’s the wiser and all that.”

Javert gave no sign of having heard him. The tremor in his body was now so apparent that he looked ready to collapse. He was.

“Hmm, it is obvious you are not yet fully recovered,” Chabouillet noted with limited severity. “I understand that this must come as something of a shock, since you were obviously so keen on that inquiry. Well, no need to worry about that anymore. Get some rest. You look like you need it.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Javert whispered meekly. He should leave it at that as Chabouillet intended to. He should, but he could not help himself. “Monsieur, what of Valjean?”

Chabouillet, already halfway to the door, stopped and looked at him. “If the man who was tried is indeed Valjean, given his age the odds are that he will die in the bagne before he has served his sentence. If he survives… Well, then indeed God must be smiling on him, because he cannot be tried again after his acquittal.”

“And if the acquittal was just? If that man is not Jean Valjean?”  

Javert’s voice rang odd in his own ears. The moment he spoke out he wished he could stop himself, but he was too late to take them back. Stomach churning viciously, he straightened and he faced Chabouillet’s increasing frown head on.

“I thought you said your report was false?” his patron inquired.

“It was,” Javert said. “But if neither Madeleine nor the other fellow are Valjean…”

“Then the real Valjean will foul up at some point in the near future. He’s a criminal, Javert. You know he will break the law again; they all do. And when he does, we will catch him!” With a few long strides he stood by the door and yanked it open. “Oh, and of course, red meat!”

Javert craned his head with effort. “Red meat, monsieur?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, red meat! Just the thing to regain strength and stamina after severe illness. You should try it!”

He nodded politely. “I see. I shall keep it in mind, monsieur.”

“You do that. Good night, Javert.”

“Good night, monsieur.”

The door slammed shut. Javert stood by the table like a statue in an earthquake as he listened to Chabouillet’s boots descending the stairs and leaving the building. When at last the sound of hoof beats on the cobblestones below his small window signalled a _fiacre_ riding off, every joint in Javert’s body gave way.

He landed hard on the wooden. Aches and tinges shot through every fibre, but he took no notice of the pain. It was all he could do to keep breathing.

No formal inquiry. No further repercussions. He could even keep his job without as much as a demotion!

His face pulled into a painful grin off its own accord. It would not be just to punish him, Chabouillet had said. Nonsense! Of course it would have been just to dismiss him! But trust an officer with a political agenda to serve his own reputation before justice! Oh, he was well aware that his patron had not saved him as much as that Chabouillet had saved himself. Having a successful protégé was only in an officer’s advantage as long as said protégé remained successful. He was a pawn to his patron, to be sacrificed when necessary and saved as long as the king still have need of him.

No, this decision was not just, but if Chabouillet had done what he should have done, the _real_ victim would have been Valjean, in the most unjust way…

Javert’s frantic mind wound down when a watery ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover and turned the dust in his room to dancing sparkles. The golden rays reminded him of his Lady. What would she say now? Was it acceptable to allow a minor injustice in order to prevent a much greater one? A lie that wasn’t always a lie and a truth that wasn’t always a truth? That was like saying black was only black at some times, and white at others!

Javert had never believed in greys, and he found that he still didn’t. Greys were neither one nor the other, and therefore _never_ true. Yet this was both truth and lie. Another alternative interpretation, then? A gem that looks black in one facet, but shines white in another? Two very different things, yet still the same gem. Like Jean, who was Madeleine one moment and Valjean the next. Yet always the same man: the man that Javert loved…

The sunlight faded, but the thought of Valjean did not.

With a sudden burst of energy, Javert shot to his feet. To Hell with prudence! This was _not_ going to be left until tomorrow! He put on his greatcoat, slammed his hat on his head and only stopped to pick up his cane and lock the door on his way out. He repeated Chabouillet’s words over and over as he hurried down, wary for any hidden meaning that he had failed to grasp. There was none: Chabouillet had indeed, quite unwittingly, given both him and Valjean a reprieve from their sins.

At the bottom of the stairs, his legs demanded that he’d take a cab while his empty pockets said that Valjean would have to pay the driver if he did that. Javert cared little about either. His relief was too great to be cross about something as futile as pride.

He was no longer a suspect, and neither was Madeleine. The wolves of the prefecture had let them go, untouched. How incredible! Against all odds life had given them a chance. Oh, they weren’t safe, Javert reminded himself as he hailed a passing _fiacre_. Society was still forbidding and Valjean was still a fugitive. But what mattered was that they would not need to fear separation. From now on, they could be together.

As much as possible, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this is the ending I was aiming for all along (although it got considerably more complicated along the way). I hope it does the story justice. I hope I did it justice... 
> 
> Last instalment will be the epilogue.


	27. Epilogue - Four Out of Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. At last.

The light of the setting sun illuminated the kitchen as Mary Prost _née_ Johnson washed the pots, pans and plates used for tonight’s dinner. She whistled a tuneless song under her breath while rubbing knives and forks dry with one of the gingham towels. When all the dishes were done, she put them back in their cupboards without taking heed of their number. It was good form for a housekeeper to count the silverware after every use, but these days she never did so anymore. Counting four of each instead of three would only break the spell.

What she counted instead were her blessings, which, in all honesty, were numerous. After spending more than a decade as a widow with no prospect of remarriage, she had resigned that she would never be part of a family again. Yet over the past few months, she had become more than a mere housekeeper to Monsieur Jean, and far more than a nanny to Cosette.

Their unusual household arrangements were a bit confusing to the little girl. Cosette called her loving grandfather ‘papa’ and more than once she had called Mary ‘maman’ instead of ‘nana’. It hurt to have to correct her, but Mary did so without fail before Monsieur Jean beat her to it. She had come to care for Cosette like the daughter she had never had, but Monsieur Jean had made it very clear that his granddaughter would grow up knowing that her mother had died trying to provide for her. Based on the results, Mary seriously doubted the dead woman’s efforts, but who was she to judge a stranger who couldn’t defend herself? So she kept her mouth shut, as she kept silent about so many things around his house.

No, that wasn’t a fair thing to say. True perhaps, but not fair. Because while she did all the things she had always done and Monsieur Jean still paid her for her work, much had changed in ways she had only ever dared to dream of. She now shared every meal with them, sitting at the dining table rather than in the kitchen by herself. And four nights per week, Monsieur Jean would invite her to sit in the parlour with him when her work was done. They would have tea, and conversation… If not for the fact that she slept in her own apartment every night, she could squint her eyes and pretend that the three of them made a bona fide family.

And four days out of seven, that was exactly what she did.

She closed the last cupboard and cleaned the kitchen counter. Voices drifted in from the parlour across the vestibule. Occasionally Cosette’s high tone would be heard over the others, informing her papa that Catherine would like some more tea, or if he would please hand her the make-belief plate of sweet cakes. Four times of out seven, he would indulge her and play along. But tonight was one of those other three times, when his mind was elsewhere entirely.

Because tonight was one of the nights when Inspector Javert came over for dinner, and stayed for tea afterwards.

Mary made a point of keeping herself confined to the kitchen. Chores done, she sat down and counted the minutes until it was time to face what she knew was coming. Earlier, Monsieur Jean had invited her to join in the parlour, but as always she had declined: two is company, three is a crowd. Especially when she and the inspector got along as well as fire and ice. Oh, Javert was polite enough to her and she was just as formally gracious in return, but the mood between them was awkward at best. When Monsieur Jean was with them, that tension became tangible, like they were wolves getting ready to fight over a meal.

Not that she would fight Javert. That was a battle she could never win. What these men felt for each other was as deep as it was forbidden, and her love for Monsieur Jean ran equally deep. Deep enough that she would not spoil what limited time he had with his inspector: three evenings per week was all they could afford without the townsfolk getting suspicious. As a rule, Javert did not arrive before dinner and always left before midnight. A handful of hours at most, while she had Monsieur Jean to herself the rest of the time. Still Mary was convinced that the arrangement was fair on both of them. She had the privilege of spending more time with Monsieur Jean, while Javert had the privilege to touch him.

And _how_ …

She sighed and rested her chin in her water-wrinkled hands. She had a fair idea how the rest of the night was going to work out. The looks and winks that had been fired across the table during dinner had been difficult to ignore and even more difficult to stomach. For her, at least, because the men had been oblivious over everything but each other.

The clock in the parlour struck eight. Each chime chilled her to the core. It was time.

With careful resignation, Mary loosened her apron and hung it on the peg by the kitchen door. She stroked the creases from her dress, straightened the hems of her bodice and then headed over to the parlour. She entered without knocking.

Monsieur Jean sat in his usual chair, while the inspector hung back on the sofa, a glass of wine in his hand. It was clear she had interrupted their conversation, but judging by Javert’s lack of hostility her interference was welcome. Only for one reason, she knew, and that reason currently sat on the ground before the unlit hearth with her doll in her lap. Mary pretended to ignore Javert and his impatience.

“Eight o’clock, monsieur,” she said to Monsieur Jean. “Will you bring M’moiselle Cosette to bed tonight, or should I?”

Such a simple question, one she asked every night. However, three nights out of four she dreaded the answer. If Monsieur Jean said he would, that meant Javert would leave shortly, maybe escort Mary home for show. But if Monsieur Jean asked her to bring Cosette to bed, it was she who was expected to leave the house as soon as possible. Not that she expected any miracles tonight. And indeed, Monsieur Jean’s kind eyes rose to meet hers without making any effort to get out of his fauteuil.

“If you would be so kind, madame?”

Mary took a deep breath. “Of course, monsieur. Cosette? Come, love. It’s bedtime.”

At the mention of her name, Cosette pushed out her lower lip in a price-winning pout. “Papa, you must bring me to bed! Catherine wants you to read us the story of _Le Corbeau et le Reinard_ again.”

“Another time, child,” Monsieur Jean said and smiled at her.

“But will you not come and read it when I’m already in bed?”

“I’m sorry, Cosette, not tonight. I promised Monsieur l’Inspecteur a game of chess before he leaves.”

A ‘game of chess’…Mary kept her face straight, but her insides cringed as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She knew to expect it - she _had_ expected it tonight - but still her heart sank every time it was dealt this blow. She didn’t care what they did during their ‘game’, or even that Monsieur Jean lay with another man. The only thing that really hurt was that _he didn’t lay with her!_ That stung. Invariably.

Cosette, fortunately, had less difficulty adapting to the situation. She made no effort to hide her disappointment, but she did pick up her doll and obediently bade her papa and the inspector goodnight. Their echoed response was empty and her papa stroked rather than kissed it as she passed him, but Cosette was used to that. After all, her nana had told her that it was not polite to kiss someone in public.

Well, what else should Mary have told the child when she asked?

Leaving the men to themselves, Cosette not-quite closed the door behind her and then slipped her little hand in Mary’s palm. Together they ascended the stairs in silence. By colours left after sunset, Mary helped the girl change out of her dress and into a long nightgown. Then, in what Cosette had declared ‘something between ladies only’, together they changed Catherine for the night, too.

“Shall I read you a story?” Mary asked.

Cosette nodded as she wriggled under the covers with her doll pressed to her chest. “But not _Le Corbeau et le Reinard_. I want papa to read that one tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

Mary retrieved the book of fables from the bedside table and opened it at a random page. The open curtains admitted enough light to read without lighting a candle, so she told her little girl the story of _Le Chêne et le Roseau_ : the oak that wouldn’t bend to the storm and broke, while the pliable reed bend and survived. A valuable lesson indeed…

When the fable was done, Mary gently closed the book and put it away. Then she tucked the thin summer blankets around Cosette, kissed the girl goodnight and got up to close the curtains. The heavy fabric shut out the last of the pastels, when suddenly a little voice behind her called her.

“Nana?”

“Yes, Cosette?” she whispered back.

“Why does Inspector Javert want to play chess with papa when papa always wins?”

Mary’s hackles stood on end. “H-how do you know he always wins?”

“I know because sometimes when I can’t sleep, I can hear papa when they play and he sounds very excited, like he’s winning. But I never heard the inspector shout like that, so he must be very sad that he lost.”

The darkness in the room cloaked the embarrassment that Mary felt burning in her cheeks. “Perhaps,” she began slowly, “perhaps the inspector wants your papa to teach him how to play better, so he can win, too. Maybe Monsieur Jean is just encouraging him.” That sounded plausible enough, even if the lie tasted bitter in her mouth.

“Well, then papa is getting it all wrong!” Cosette said with all the righteous indignation of a child. “I asked the Sister Patrice at school about chess, and she said that people are supposed to be very quiet when they play that game!”

Mary bit down on the whole of her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Not just to spare Cosette’s feelings, but also because this wasn’t a laughing matter. “Then you had better set the example and be still now, yes?” she said.

“All right. Good night, nana.”

“Sleep well, my dear.”

Mary gently closed the bedroom door and pushed it with one hand to make sure. Then she gathered her skirts and hurried down the stairs with light steps. She would have to have a serious word with Monsieur Jean in the morning, about little cups with big ears and an even bigger mouth. Or better yet, she would tell both of them right now! That might ruin their mood for now, but that was a small price to pay to ensure that their secret _stayed_ secret.

Crossing the vestibule, Mary noticed that the parlour door was still ajar, as Cosette had left it. The room beyond it was darker than before. A dim light illuminated the edges of the doorpost, but it wasn’t the pastels of the evening sky. The curtains in the parlour were drawn, then, while a single candle provided the men with what little light they needed for their ‘game’.

She deliberately scuffed her shoes on the tiles, so as to announce her presence as she approached. But when the muffled sounds coming from the parlour did not cease when she had reached the door, a morbid curiosity got the better of her.

She peered through the slit between the doorpost and the door. Narrow as it was, she saw only little of the room, but what she saw did contain a part of the sofa. A blue-clad arm extended from a uniformed torso and draped over the backrest. Then more of the uniform, now with the inspector’s long, greying hair came into view as the man leaned back. In itself this glimpse was in no way indecent. However the heavy breathing she heard, marred with the occasional grunt, left little to the imagination. When she caught sight of strong fingers grasping the inspector’s hip, the picture came together.

It was too late to interrupt, that much was obvious. Of course the effect of bursting in for a lecture would be all the greater under these circumstances, but Mary had no desire to see Monsieur Jean on his knees before his inspector with his mouth around— no. No, this was torture enough as it was. She should take pity on herself and leave without a word.

In the parlour, the strained noises changed. Despite herself Mary glanced through the opening again, just in time to see how the inspector’s long fingers dug into the sofa’s fabric until every knuckle was white. His breath hitched for a long moment, then escaped him with a shaky sigh.

“You were too eager indeed,” she heard Monsieur Jean’s satisfied voice whisper moments later. “I only hope this doesn’t leave you too sated, hmm?” The faint sound of a long, drawn-out kiss interrupted him. Mary bit her lip again, this time until she tasted salt.

“Hardly,” the inspector’s deep voice drawled eventually. Then he moved a fraction and pulled something from his belt. It gave a metallic jingle. “It crossed my mind today that you should use these.”

Monsieur Jean gave out a short, low laugh. “Are you sure? I have plenty of soft cravats that will hold you down just as well, you know.”

In the dusky vestibule, Mary stilled as an ice-cold stone settled in her belly. Memories surfaced, but she willed them to pass her by unheeded. As quietly as she could, she stepped away from the parlour and collected her scarf and handbag from the coat rack by the front door. No matter how pressing, her lecture about discretion would have to wait until tomorrow.

Moments later, she stepped outside and drew fresh air into her lungs. Then she pulled the front door shut with the greatest care. Only the lock clicked audibly. The rest was silence.

She ventured into the night. The air was still warm, the sky not yet dark. The scarf she wrapped around her shoulders was a gesture of habit rather than necessity. With every step she took away from the house, the scents and sounds of the city distracted her from the private little world that she had left behind for the night.

The long walk to her apartment put distance between herself and what she had witnessed. She was not the type to cry herself to sleep over grief, but with distance came courage and soon she found herself wishing that she had burst into that parlour regardless and lectured them both, starting with a reminder to lock the bloody door!

But she hadn’t. And if she went back, she wouldn’t dare to humiliate Monsieur Jean like that. She sighed. Her punishment, such as it could be, would be more devious: the next few times Javert came over, she would insist that he must escort her home in the name of discretion.

Not that she enjoyed his company, but it kept the rumour mill occupied. Back when she had brought him supplies on Monsieur Jean’s orders, a rumour had spread that _she_ was Javert’s sweetheart and that she was the reason he visited Monsieur Madeleine so often.

It made her sick to her stomach to think that people believed this was true, and she was certain Javert didn’t appreciate the idea either. Except that it was a perfect cover. So some nights they would leave together and he would walk her to her apartment. They exchanged only polite conversation, if they spoke at all. It was torment on them both, but they knew that while the rumour of their courtship persisted, no one would suspect the truth.

In the end, that was all that mattered. She and Javert would never be friends, but they were unlikely allies in their endeavours to protect the man they loved.

The arrangement wasn’t perfect. Each sliver of happiness came at a great cost to all three of them, but each sliver was more than they would have had without. Despite the sting of jealousy, four days out of seven Mary could pretend that she had everything that her heart desired.

In the remaining days, Monsieur Jean and his inspector could do the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, people! I can't believe it, but it's done. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have ^^_^^ 
> 
> A big, huge, ENORMOUS 'thank you' to everyone who had stayed with the ever-growing fic, and to everyone who left nudges of motivation through kudos and comments. 
> 
> If you liked this story enough to have come all this way and if you haven't already, please take a moment to leave me a comment with your thoughts. I've learned a lot in the year it took me to write this fic, but there is always more to learn :) Please tell me what you liked, and what you didn't like, so I can improve my skills when I take the leap this year to write and publish professionally! 
> 
> (Only don't mention the typo's. I know about the typo's. I know and I am deeply ashamed that I continuously fail to catch them all...)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You villain touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453745) by [francu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/francu/pseuds/francu)




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